My grandma died, and then my mom got rid of all the eggs in our house. For years, no eggs. Not for breakfast, not even for cooking.
No eggs. Not one egg among us. None.
Ours was not a household in which questions from the children were encouraged or treated seriously.
Grandma died, and then no more eggs.
Grandma died, so no more eggs.
No more eggs because grandma died.
No sense asking why.
It was a mystery among mysteries (another reason we as children did not question it – it was merely one among so many exhausting many).
Later – much, much later – I learned that my grandma died of a heart attack (my mom initially told me she died because she had “a hole in her heart,” once again allowing her penchant for tasteless euphemisms to cloud event and circumstance and circumvent understanding). The belief was that high cholesterol was the cause of the heart attack (caused her heart attack). And because my family believed that eggs caused high cholesterol they, all of them, each and every last egg, had to go.
I don’t remember exactly when eggs were reintroduced into our home. But come back they did.
One mystery solved, only to be replaced by another.
At least no one had to die to cement this one, to hold it in place for us all.
At least, I don’t think so.