My Grandma Jean  discovered 

an abandoned nest,

dainty as a child’s palm

folded in the dry grasses

of her Texas prairie home.

Three cream-colored eggs, marble-size

pointillated with soft- blue dots

peeked out 

of the wispy nest.

Each egg a tiny 


that we admired,


in coffee-table glass splendor 

for a decade.

When she died,

I carried that nest

from Texas

to Oregon,

cradling the precious

little cargo:

enduring and 


Last Easter, 

I was moving the nest

and crushed two of the eggs.

All I could think

was how sad

that I had lost 

that link

and how fragile 

is the link to family.

All that is left

are the stories I tell

my kids 

and the memories I share 

with my  mom:

tender, funny and 



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