Today’s flash fiction prompt: Write about a parent’s wisdom.
Ode to Folly
My father only ever taught me one thing.
“To peel the egg,” he said, “smash it all over. Then tug off the shell.”
To this day, I peel my boiled eggs the same way.
Of course, there are other methods. Many of them better. And I wouldn’t exactly call this method a successful execution of peelery. Smash too hard and the egg white tears. Smash too soft, and the thin film beneath the shell won’t puncture. I’ve decimated a fair share of eggs meant for deviling using this method.
I keep peeling them this way, anyway.
Why? Because somewhere in my grownup mind, there’s still a child. One that felt worthy and seen the day her father graced her with not just his time, but his wisdom. A sweet memory, rare and treasured.
Though I couldn’t count the number of times I craved my father’s time and didn’t get it, and I (mostly) no longer need external affirmations of worth, this moment is still precious to me.
And so, I peel my eggs by smashing the shell all around.
Knowing it’s trivial.
Knowing it’s foolish.
Knowing he probably doesn’t even remember.
Because it was the only thing my father taught me.
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