Karma is a Goose

I was just sitting at my desk counting down the minutes until the weekend (70... 69...) when I suddenly realized why I was attacked by the goose on Wednesday: It was Karma, plain and simple.

When my wonderful family first moved to the Queen City in 1995 we lived in a perfect neighborhood in North Charlotte (we have since moved to the south side). The neighborhood had a playground a pond where geese would come and nest. One fateful day I accompanied two older girls to the pond to explore, pick flowers and chat. We stumbled across some geese nests and crouched down to peer inside. In one nest we discovered a lone egg. Of course being too young to realize that this egg had not hatched due to fertilization issues, our immediate thought was that it would hatch and be by itself.

We decided to take care of it ourselves (I think Fly Away Home had just come out, and we all wanted to be Anna Paquin). I volunteered was chosen to house the little egg. I was blessed with an enormous walk-in closet containing windows all along one wall. The closet was bright, warm and cozy.

I wrapped my pre-gosling in sweaters and scarves and placed him in the sunniest spot I could find. I checked on him daily, eagerly anticipating the day he would hatch and see me as his mama. Weeks passed, and there was no progression from my friend. Sadly, we accepted defeat and decided to return our orphaned egg to his nest in case his mom came back looking for him.

On the return trip, my friends and I became angry. We had loved this egg, and he had been abandoned and was now too scared to hatch. When we reached the pond we found that someone had destroyed all of the nests. Not knowing what to do my friend suggested that we break the egg to find out what was inside. Since I was young and dorky striving to be accepted by the older girls I immediately agreed that this was the best course of action.

It was decided that I would be the breaker. With all of my 6th-grade might, I heaved the egg at a tree. As soon as it left my hand, I experienced an odd mix of emotions - excitement, anger, sadness, embarrassment and shame. Most of all I was terrified yet intrigued to find out what was lodged in the egg. Would a live gosling fall out? Some half-formed mutated embryo? With a rather sickening splat, egg hit bark and yolk exploded all over the grounded. Of course the egg hadn't been fertilized and looked no different than the eggs my dad used to make chocolate chip pancakes - it was just bigger.

I was overcome with emotion (sensitivity is my middle name) and began sobbing about the whole ordeal. I ran home with tears streaking my cheeks, and I clearly repressed the events of my past since I've only thought about that egg once or twice since throwing it at the tree.

The goose that, er, got my goose earlier this week must have known about the blood - or yolk - that was on my hands and merely sought vengenance for his fallen - or cracked - brethren.