The Fried Egg
By Valerie Muriel Mckinley
Published: October 16, 2007
Updated: October 4, 2008

If I leaned forward
a smidgen my chin
would rest on the table,
my two blue eyes
looked sullenly at the single
yellow eyed horror on the greasy plate
and my stomach lurched in protest.

THWACK! My chin bounced off the table
making my teeth rattle
and tears leaked down my chubby
infant cheeks.

“ Eat it up NOW!
Can’t waste good food on you missy”

“Be hard be British!”
Was her mantra
this aunt - my tormentor.

The white of the egg
slowly and reluctantly
disappeared between trembling lips
and mingled with salty teardrops
lapped up by a tongue
who’s buds yearned for a friendly taste.

I longed for my mummy
who was away buying my baby sister.

Teatime…

I stared in dismay at the lone yolk
lying on the saucer;
through my tears
I could swear it winked at me.