Originally published March 2, 2008
Earl has a certain fascination with Ukrainian eggs. In fact, one such egg was among the very first gifts he gave me. We bought it together in an old ethnic neighborhood on Chicago’s west side. I returned the favor one year by bringing him a Ukrainian egg from New York City. Since then family members have added to our small collection.
Until about a year ago, we kept the eggs inside a little cupboard, partly for fear of breaking them. We’d had experience with such breakage, as a cleaning lady accidentally once put her thumb through one. It was the first egg Earl bought me. Keeping it safe hadn’t saved it, so I wondered why we bothered hiding them.
A couple eggs had ribbon pulled through them to enable them to be hung, so I decided to hang them in the kitchen window where we would see them daily. They have been a joy to look at ever since.
It’s true they’re now faded and not as lovely as before. It’s true that the family members who gave Earl the eggs might feel we didn’t take care of them. But what’s also true is that a day doesn’t pass that I don’t think about the tradition of Ukrainian eggs, admire their beauty, and remember the giver.
I think I’d rather have those memories than a perfect egg sitting in a cupboard.
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