Bear, Robin, Eggs

FROM THE PERSONALS: “Robin: Once there was a certain small bear who forgot 2 wish a certain spec woman a happy solstice B-day. Now it’s belated—oh, bother. Love, Anonymous.”
I just made the perfect fried egg. I think there’s an art to it, trying to figure out how to make the yolk lie perfectly in the center, not too runny, not too gummy—I think the whites need to have those odd little crispy edges, too, that look like thin bits of crumbling plastic. A little browned, with lots of salt and pepper and a pan slathered with an excessive quantity of fat. Some Tabasco, too. The night that you first stayed over, I made you a fried egg with some greasy potatoes. You had a tiny shawl over your big shoulders when you wandered into the kitchen with bloodshot eyes and a face that looked sapped of all moisture. I laughed because you looked like a grizzly wearing a doily. I thought it was all very funny. You pouted, but not in a serious way. I plated the eggs for you and they were much too runny, but you scarfed them down anyway and called me an angel. I am writing this from my kitchen in Connecticut. The Mountain Laurels are reaching toward a sky that is nearly perfect and uncorrupted. I turned thirty-seven yesterday. I am thinking about that summer fifteen years ago, when I ate very little and felt like my heartstrings were going to stretch and snap at the slightest pull. They never did, but I came close over and over. Currently, I am happy and my heart has more muscle to it. I no longer feel like I’m scrounging around, desperately trying to find bits of life dropped on the sidewalk. Life extends itself out to me like a fat-faced god, and I don’t have to scrape my knees to receive it. It is a strange sort of grief, to reckon with the fact that I will never be a hungry child again. Please write back and tell me about your health, and about the city. I miss you dearly. Love, Robin.