nowadays whenever i fly, my father has taken to making me two hard boiled eggs. he wraps them up while they’re still hot, so when i take them out they’re always warm and slightly wet. in a second bag, he puts a loose mix of salt and pepper. he always presents these two eggs as an option, happy to take them back if i decide that i do not want them. i like to imagine my father in the morning, dipping a slotted spoon into the pot, carefully lifting each egg out of the boiling water, drying them off, placing them in a ziploc bag before they’ve had time to cool. i think about him every time i look at these eggs, sitting on my counter, days after ive landed, still wrapped in their napkin.