It was the third time this week, a half sheet of yellow paper stuck under the driver’s side windshield wiper, the writing neat to start but wild and flared at the end, the message the same each day, look for it inside.
No, I always go slow down my driveway, then I look to make sure no cars are coming and then back my car into the street unless I see a little boy looking at me, his face framed by my rear window.
I strive to be ninety-six, to do the math in my head, adding my time as a child to my time as a mother, subtracting fruitless days and multiplying joyous ones, forgetting nothing, regretting less, holding my beautiful luck in my hands.
You could lose your shirt, your heart, your mind, sacrifice your time and your plan, forget your goals and the order of your day, erase what you thought mattered, end the life you have if you decide to adopt someone else’s baby.
The sign didn’t explain that the buyer must help, assist the hen in her labor, wipe her brow, stroke her feathers, catch the egg in one’s hands to place in the carton, one after another, day into night, the sacrifice was extreme.