Grandfather's Eggs

Grandfather’s Eggs

The oil spills

gently from the bottle,

like a miniature waterfall

flowing

over a rock in a river.  

The oil catches

the gleaming kitchen light

of my late grandfather’s house

and forms

a perfect circle

on the matte black frying pan.  

I tap

the smooth egg

on the rim

of the silver kitchen sink.

Crack,

crack,

crack,

as the lines spiderweb

across the calcium carbonate crystals.

I picture Grandfather

standing near the sink

with his maroon apron.  

I open the shell,

and the egg dives into the oil.

Sizzle,

sizzle,

sizzle.

Grandfather always held the egg

close to the pan as he opened it,

so the oil

wouldn’t splash

into his face.

The bottom of the egg

transforms into white,

like a chameleon

against the bark of a birch tree.

An aroma of frying food  

reaches

every corner of the kitchen.

The smell

lingers

in the air.

It reminds me

of how I sat at the wooden table

admiring

Grandfather’s cooking skills.

The salt sprinkles

down over the egg.

The pepper showers the egg,

like leaves falling

in autumn.

Achoo!

Pepper always made Grandfather sneeze.

I remove my eggs from the stove,

and I take a bite

with Grandfather’s favorite fork

that Grandmother gave him.

This fork

is a piece of Grandfather

that still remains.  

As the warmth

spreads

through my mouth,

I remember

how Grandfather made me eggs

every day

until he was gone.