12 December 2012

the egg



Yesterday my friend gave me a hard-boiled egg. It was a brown egg with deep cracks at one end and he gave it to me in the early a.m. when it was cold and black outside. If I didn't know better I'd say it was foggy except that what felt like fog was bad air smelling of smoke and burning. It was just your regular Chengdu a.m. and my friend was at his post eating breakfast. He works the night shift and when I take our dog for a morning walk he's still at his post. So each morning he says hi, and I say hi. Then the dog says hi. But we're in China so what I actually say are things like, “Still working?,” and he asks questions like, “Are you walking the dog?,” and then we both pause while the dog licks his hand. We all seem happy with our routine. For me it makes the neighborhood feel like a real home, but I doubt my friend feels this way. He already feels at home. And when he gave me the egg from his own breakfast, it made me feel at home too. Like there’s someone who knows me and maybe considers me a part of their daily rhythm. If at this point I'm thinking of the chicken or the egg conundrum I'd say the egg definitely comes first. It's the start of things and sets the roots for everything that follows. And besides, at that hour, it's way too early for the roosters to start crowing in Chengdu anyway -- something, I suppose, you only know if you call Chengdu home.