Over Easy

    "Isn't the world wonderful?"

    I wait, wait for the explanation, the qualifier or, more likely, the litany of wonders he has just unearthed, discovered, thought of, puzzled over, read about, or, more likely, most likely, made up. I am waiting, a bit impatiently, I admit--well, quite impatiently--waiting, spatula in hand, ready to flip the eggs, but waiting.

    "Well," he finally says, "consider the egg."

    I chortle at that, nearly choke, and scoop the eggs up and over before they harden, all the flavor dried out, no yolk to dip the toast in.

    The toast! "Did you put the toast down?" I shout just as it pops up. "Oh, good! No butter on mine." Which he knows, but sometimes forgets.

    And within a minute . . . well, 3 minutes...there we are, sitting at the round table his grandfather made, each of us eating our eggs--two each, over easy, perfectly cooked--toast with butter--his; homemade blackberry jam--mine.

    He doesn't say it again, because I hurry to get the words out first. "Yes," I say, "You are right. This truly is wonderful, quite wonderful, all of it."

    "Eat your eggs, Pollyanna," he says, and I do, we both do, pleased and, yes, full of wonder.