People are like Easter eggs

     When I was in second grade, we had an Easter egg hunt at school. Being the introvert, I marveled at the frenzy of kids running all over the place like it was black Friday in a department store. What I noticed was how many eggs that were passed over as they fought for the obvious ones. I picked them up, one by one, sometimes getting on the ground to reach for the one hidden beneath the merry-go-round or lying discretely beside a see-saw. Then, I noticed one classmate who picked up an egg in disgust and quickly tossed it. My curiosity led me to the egg and I noticed that it was quite ugly. The shell was almost completely shattered. I reasoned that it was still an egg that could be counted and I hesitantly decided to place it carefully in my basket.

     By the time the hunt ended and others were already counting their eggs in excitement, I noticed an egg that had not been discovered. Seconds after the teachers called an end to the hunt, I quickly ran to retrieve it. As I leaned down to pick it up, I felt a slight nudge on my basket. I turned around and the boy who tossed the defective egg was walking away while putting an egg in his basket. As I wondered how I managed to pass over it, I became convinced that he took it from my basket. After the final count, I was shocked that I had more eggs than most and I came in second place! I'll let you guess who came in first. Yep. The funny thing is, I never protested. I knew I had won.

     Every Easter, I am reminded of that year. I'm not sure why, but I have never forgotten it. All of the times that I've recalled that memory, I have never thought about how it can relate to life. People are like Easter eggs. You have the pretty ones. Then, you have the ugly ones, the defects and the rejects of society--the undesirables.

     Life for most is a contest to see who ends up with the best and the most. Chase! Fight! Steal! Do what you must to win. In the process, some tend to be kicked aside. They appear to be worthless, broken by the trampling of the rat race. Real value is not on what is seen, but what lies beneath. The soft, unseen substance that is preserved inside. The part that reveals a better picture, a better insight, into its history; a more detailed account of its creation and purpose. The shell can be dressed up, painted, and designed to look desirable. On the other hand, it can also be shattered and broken. The "invisible" is exposed sooner to those because the shell is already in pieces. All that is left is the peeling away.

Then She Laughed

     I was completely changed when I heard that laugh. It wasn’t ordinary. It sounded as though it came from somewhere deep inside of her. I’ve heard her laugh many times before, but something was different. Her voice changed. I tried for a long time to figure out why I was so intrigued by it; I needed to know what made it different. All I knew was that it was the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. I tried often to make her repeat it, but she insisted that she didn’t know what I was talking about.

     After a while, I gave up trying to make her laugh. I was never good at being funny anyway. The only time I’ve ever succeeded at humor was when it was unintentional. I settled for enjoying the pleasure of her unique laugh when it came. As time went on, I continued to be mesmerized by it. Then it hit me.

     The summer of 1996 brought the excitement of the Olympic games to Atlanta. We didn’t have tickets to enjoy any of the events but we decided not to let the experience pass us by. So, off we went to walk amongst the crowds of people from all over the planet. All of the streets downtown were closed to traffic. The security level was high; law officers were on every corner. We stopped to watch many of the street entertainers. I recognized one of them. He was a homeless man whom I had seen often in Atlanta, drawing pictures of people for money.

     By the time we reached Hard Rock Cafe, curiosity struck me and I said, “I’ve got an idea.” “What?”, she asked. I grabbed her by the hand and rushed across the street, squeezing through an endless sea of people. I stopped at the entrance of a parking deck. I had to know if the empty building was being guarded. The top floor had always been my favorite chill spot in Atlanta. I had even watched the sunrise there a few times. There wasn't a single soul inside. It was blocked off to vehicles but it was possible to get in by foot.

     I looked to my left, then to my right. The police, with gear from head to toe, had their eyes all over the place; however, I had an urge that would not be satisfied by playing it safe. “Go!”, I shouted quietly. As I ran, she quickly followed me until we reached the stairwell. We continued running up the steps, floor by floor, until we reached the top level where we could see the night sky at the heart of downtown. We caught our breath as I pondered my next move. Being seen would be risky. I collected my thoughts and decided to just pretend like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. We strolled innocently across the parking lot until we made it to the ledge.

     With the Peachtree Westin towering above us, and the ambient glow of lights below, we watched in silence. We listened to the distant sounds of the busy streets; waves of people moving to and fro like a slow, flowing river. After minutes of speechless awe and wonder, I took advantage of being alone with her high above the world below. The empty parking lot was our own private dance floor and we moved to the music of a faintly roaring crowd. I spun her around and around. Then she laughed.     


...and I knew.

for DeCembre Hope (1976 - 2001)

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