Of broken eggs, and broken tradition.

I have just gotten Ziggy to sleep after laying with him for over an hour.... nearly one and a half hours.

After laying there for the longest time, he says, "Mama?" in this tight nearly-in-tears voice. I said, "What is it, darling?"

And he answered, "Are you a little blue about your special egg? The one I broke?" (He means, of course, the beautiful Czechoslovakian one that Brother gave me years ago and that the Mister unpacked from my treasure box recently.) I tried my best to assure the boy that I was just fine and not at all sad about it-- the breaking happened a couple of weeks ago, and I'd hardly thought of it again, simply having composted the shell and understood that the delicate egg posed too great a temptation to be let alone.

But he insisted, finally saying, "I think you ARE blue about it, Mama, because I am....." really holding back the tears.

Oh, he is a sensitive little man.

And somehow, this egg heartbreak makes me sad and teary in a similar way to having missed the weekend's Hightower family reunion and the annual grave working and having heard from Diggy's cousin Kay that the numbers of attendees had dwindled more than ever, and that no one represented for Diggy's mother Gertrude's family at the reunion, and just a single person (one of my first cousins) at the grave working.

No one brought flowers for the graves of my uncle, grandmother, grandfather and great grands....

I aim to be back there next year, and assure our Diggy that whether she is spread or buried, we will bring her flowers, though I'm not sure she really cares a lot about that. It's just that the gesture really counts in some old fashioned still kind of mattering way.