The Bacon That Isn’t There

by Justin Dill

For the fourteenth day, eggs fall from the sky. Always eggs, and mine, always scrambled. Never over easy. Never over. Never easy. Mother makes omelets for breakfast, for the fourteenth time. Fourteen quiche lunches. Fourteen egg salad suppers. Meringue for dessert. I skip that first. And then it’s fourteen skipped meals. Times three. Times four. Times fourteen. 

Fourteen stomach grumbles. Fourteen pushed away plates. Fourteen treks to the fridge, in search of the bacon that isn’t there. Just a strip. Just a crumble. Is that too much to ask? Instead it’s just eggs, eggs, eggs, all the time. Quail eggs. Duck eggs. But bacon? 

Goose egg. 

Fourteen hours of sleep. Fourteen snooze buttons. Fourteen bacon dreams. Fourteen is two too much for anyone, and much too much for me. Fourteen weather reports, promising fourteen more days of egg-fall. Fourteen more than I can take. 

For the fourteenth week, eggs fall from the sky. Fourteen souffles that I left untouched. Fourteen frittatas left to spoil. Have I passed my expiration yet, I wonder? Fourteen cries for help. Fourteen cries. Four— 

Help.  

Fourteen. I’m awfully sick of fourteen. Awfully sick of eggs. Always eggs. Never sunny side up. Never sunny. 

There are voices. Three, times four, times fourteen.  

You’re a rotten egg, they say. 

So I close my eyes. 

And I dream of the bacon that isn’t there. 

 For the fourteenth month, eggs fall from the sky. Mother is gone now, I think. She made a custard, made it specially for me. And I told her to go suck an egg. So she left.  

You’re a rotten egg. 

She only wanted to help. Only, I didn’t want help. 

What I want is bacon, but the bacon is never there. So I keep on rotting. How much longer now, I wonder? I heard, once, about a thousand-year egg. I hope I don’t last that long. 

Fourteen, fourteen, four plus ten. 

Dear Mother Goose has turned to a hen. 

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men. 

No one can put me together again. 

Are you too chicken to vanquish the curse? 

Or was it, in fact, the eggs that came first? 

For the fourteenth forever, eggs fall from the sky. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was such a bad egg. Fourteen “sorry”s, whispered in the dark. Fourteen fourteens too late. Now here I am, with egg on my face.   

It’s my fault. 

If it weren’t for me. 

If I weren’t.  

It’s my fault Mother had to walk on eggshells. 

Eggshells crunch under my feet as I stumble downstairs. Everywhere is eggs. Infinite eggs. And only one basket. I break a few eggs to clear a path to the fridge. And on it, a note. Signed, Mother. 

Gone to bring home the bacon. 

Mother didn’t run. I didn’t chase her away. Mother was always hard-boiled. 

So I put on my galoshes. I button up my raincoat. I grab my umbrella. 

And finally, fourteen forevers later, I venture out. In search of Mother. 

In search of the bacon that isn’t there.