Egg Karma

"Gramz called," my daughter Julia informed me as I carried in the first two bags of groceries. "She wants you to come over and clean her window."

"No," I said, scooting cell phones and serving dishes aside so I could set the bags on the counter.

"But she got egged."

I called my mom to get the details. She didn't have any idea who threw them, but she and my father heard the eggs hit their big picture window late Saturday night.

"Who would egg Gramz?" Julia asked.

"I don't know," I replied, but three candidates came to mind. Random kids. My brother-in-law. Or the young man that plays guitar and sings at my parents' church. My dad can't stand that guy. Because he sings songs the congregation doesn't know. And he looks at his feet instead of making eye contact with the congregation. One Sunday, my dad apparently hobbled up to this kid after mass and said, "I heard you dropped out of the seminary. Were you too gay, or not gay enough?"

I'm sure the shy guitar-playing shoe gazer wouldn't dream of egging my parent's house. But I couldn't help thinking my father deserved it.

Did I deserve to have to drive over and clean it up? Not really. But I did it. That window was gleaming when I left, and I wiped down the storm door too. Here's hoping the good kind of karma comes round and finds me.