It was as I was stepping of the Huntington Station that I remembered about the eggs. I hate eggs, unless they are scrambled and well done, but of course there is one time of the year when eggs take on a quixotic appeal, around the time of Easter.
Easter makes me think of all those nooks and crannies in the rambling old house Grandpa lived in till the end of his days, that smelt of rich cigars and musty furniture, where we cousins would tirelessly poke for the hidden eggs.
The elder ones, ranging from six to nine would sush us up, but could not resist taking a peek at the newly discovered treasure, and this would go on till the long, sumptuous lunch was announced.
It was at this point I remembered about lunch the next day, and the eggs I was supposed to have hidden around our tiny apartment before nightfall. I found myself walking into the Walt Whitman Mall, though I doubt many people realize it is called by that name. Since the first time I had read the work of the man to whom every hour of light and dark was a miracle, I had fallen in love with him. Life indeed is full of miracles. It could come to you, as it did to me this morning, with an offer to write on a magazine, or it could emerge out of a bottle of Dior that would give your skin a lasting glow, which its label promises with great authority at Sephora's open counters; that brim with lipsticks and fragrances, eyeshadow and mascara, or revitalizing lotions. ...