Commitment

I still miss butt fresh eggs. For the first year or so after my grief year began on August 1st, 2016, I couldn't handle the taste or texture of commercial eggs. It was, perhaps, the longest I have ever gone without eggs. Love eggs in their endless kitchen diversity. I was pretty blown away when I found myself unable to eat commercially produced eggs. Food worishipper I ain't. I am on the gratitude diet. If I get to eat today, I am grateful. I didn't pay any more attention to the hype about fresh eggs than I pay to diet talk anywhere, be it from vegans, home ec (Life Skills) teachers or fashion models. As the demands of death took me away from the tending of my Urban Homestead flock and the flock died off under the neglectful watch of adult children, I shuffled all that to the side in favor of dealing with the psychotic twists and turns of the grieving process for 3 family members I barely knew in life. 

I amnae the only one who misses butt fresh eggs. Whether or not I have started my next flock yet is the most consistent question I get from people of long acquaintance. It still feels impractical to do so. Chickens are among the more independent of the livestock breed, but they still need tending, even when their primary keeper is off tending other business. I still donae trust the support available to me. It remains impossible to tell an, "I know" from an, "Aye, no." The "Aye no" of neglect is devastating. I still seem to feel the languishing neglect deaths of my feather babies. Did their deaths ruffle any feathers in the sleep of the adult children who canae seem to see beyond the corners of their middle aged drowsing? I donae have confidence enough to ask the middle aged drowsers. Best to let sleeping old dogs lie. All they know is that the butt fresh egg baskets are empty. Toxic Mom needs to fix that.

Despite all those psycho yaddah blahs, I still miss my feather babies, from hatch to harvest. GS was almost 3 and GD was an infant when they helped me brood my last chicks shortly before the FIL fell into his departing spiral. GS claimed he didnae remember the brooding but his eyes seemed to shimmer in soul deep recognition as he helped me brood the 4 chicks in Raptor's cage through their first week of life. The chicks already look too big for the parrot-sized cage. My heart tugs to commit by finding them a more sensible roost and more broodmates. My sense of responsibility says my commitment will be derailed again and I will only condem another flock to languishing in the tatters of my broken life. With my 65th birthday around the corner, I feel entirely too fragile for the commitment of caring for livestock alone. Even chickens.

Sorting. . .