I have no container delicate enough to hold this heartache.

I was walking on the side of the road and right in front of me was a perfectly clean, perfectly white quail's egg. I was instantly struck by this little miracle. I mean, what are the chances that this fragile, little beauty would have survived, on the side of the road, at this symbolic time of year? What are the chances that it would be placed right in my path, in such treacherous terrain but where it's symbolism of growth, life and renewal would be instantly recognized and appreciated in a troubling time of my life?

I reached down, thinking to put it into my pocket for a nest I have on a shelf at home. As it tilted over I saw that it is only half a shell, the inside bloody and scraped out by the razor beak of some precise, opportunistic raptor. The shell was so thin, barely a breath of white calcium, yet here it sat in my palm, a testament to the brutality the life it held suffered. Again, I felt kin to it.

I feverishly try to figure out how to keep it safe, knowing full well that this shard is so much weaker than the full orb had been. I had no container in my life delicate enough to hold such remanants of heartache.

Again, I say: I have no container delicate enough to hold this heartache.

I find a tuft of cotton along the shoulder of the road, snagged with thorns and tumbleweeds. After cleaning it as best as I can, I try to delicately pad the hollow of this broken shell with the remnants of this discarded cushioning...

So delicate was this shell that even my attempts to protect it split it, the fissure appearing like a river on a map.

I cannot protect the evidence of this hurt. I cannot keep my pain to display upon the shelf like a broken egg in a discarded nest.

I have to leave it on the side of the road or risk doing more damage, no matter how careful I am.