Stream of Consciousness

First Day of Autumn

An egg sits alone. An egg sits alone in a nest. An egg sits alone in a nest which is tucked upon the branches of an oak tree that shoots up from the middle of the yard. This tree, which houses the nest in which the lone egg sits, towers high above the other trees. Its shade envelopes the yard no matter the position of the sun. And for this reason, the man who lives in the house the yard surrounds, has hung two tire swings upon the lower branches. In the morning, the man pushes his son on the swing on the left side of the tree. In the evening, the man and his son uses the swing on the right side of the tree. And during their hours spent swinging, the egg remains alone in the nest. A breeze blows in, causing the man and his son to head back into the house. The house remained in the man’s family since before he existed. He is the last of his immediate family, and is glad he had a son. The two sit by the window facing the backyard where the tree and the swings and the lone egg in the nest resides. The breeze grows harder and the chilled wind begins to fill the world around them. The man perks up and scurries into the kitchen. His son remains at the table by the window facing the backyard. The son hears his father rattling pots and opening the refrigerator and clamoring things on the stove. His curiosity pushes him to look, but the boy remains at the table by the window which looks out into the backyard and directly at the tree. The two tire swings move with the wind, and the boy marvels at the quickness of the gray clouds roving overhead. Just a few minutes ago, the tree spilled its shade upon the yard and now all shadows were muted by the overcast. The father returns shortly with two mugs. He places one in front of his son and takes his place on the empty seat. He brings his mug to his lips and feels the heat of the hot cocoa rise to greet them. They must be careful—both are prone to burning the tips of their tongues on the first sip. The son laughs at his father’s creamy, hot chocolate mustache while smudging his own with the back of his bare arm. The two remain silent, watching the tire swings sway with the wind. Both shiver at the crack of thunder. Both are enamored by the sound for the prattling rain. And the boy reaches for his father’s hand. And the father takes his son’s hand. And neither one wants to break the silence. Neither of them wants it to continue. And the egg, sitting alone in a nest which its builder tucked within the branches of an oak, begins to tilt. It tilts and tilts and tilts until it crashes into the earth.

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