Soul Journal

I hold the egg in the middle of my palm. The smooth, brown shell and cool weight is pleasing to the senses.

A gentle, firm tap and the egg cracks. I tip it slowly into the glass.

The yolk’s vitelline membrane ruptures, and orange blonde and the white spiral around each other as they slip over the edge.

The small, wet thud as the ovum lands is somehow satisfying. The remaining white dribbles out as if in slow motion. I scoop the remaining viscous liquid out with my fingers, and it drips into the glass.