(SPOILER ALERT: This is a work of fiction, born of a dyslexic idiom my mind spoke. I think it turned into a metaphor about feelings, their origin within our issues...how they cycle, how we try and decipher and categorize them, devoid our mind of them, or hold them close. Maybe we stop trying to organizing them, train them, exercise them to be stronger, and just give them a break. This writing reminds me of my dreams...all worry and angst with no clear place to land or rest.)
She put all her baskets in one egg and carried it deep in her cleavage. It seemed ridiculous, but at this point ridiculous was far superior to sour. Ten years ago it was a real egg with a Sharpie face that she protected. Poor infant "died" when she let fate guard her backpack while necking with Billy Joe. There was a brief funeral and real tears, 'cuz Billy Joe's clumsy hands weren't worth the failing grade.
Wicker handles reached up from her pheasant blouse and switched at her chin like dry brush, but she didn't mind. She was taking these baskets to the quarry, and all their contents too. So many baskets, and all the cargo leaking and yelling and vying for attention. When her hands cramped last Spring, she thought about all she held, longing to spill it along the road like a broken yellow mile of highway, yet knowing it was treasure. So she hung on, until the cramp gained ground inside her mind. When your brain squeezes like that, it makes you loose your hands, like bowels after a meal of mystery meat turns suspect. All the will of holding eventually gives way to natures call. "Shit for brains" was coined after such a time. She was sure of it.
The quarry spread out below her with a toothless grin that labored under the lips of excavation. She worried at the buttons of her blouse. She worried at the handles of each basket. She fingered the smooth shell holding all the baggage that had worn grooves in her palms.
Years later, covered with the sediment of weathered cycles, she tore the last button from the tattered white flag of surrender she wore. The egg was carefully removed and the baskets plucked from delicacy, one by one. She lined them up like a broken yellow mile of highway and faced them towards a terra cotta moon.
Her last thought as she hit the cement surface of water was a good one. The baskets were hitch hiking their way to promise, and the egg...well...she took it with her.