I once found a feral egg beside My bed, so I brooded atop it out of an overwhelming sense of guilt. On a nightly basis, My Abuela would quietly enter My lair to supervise My nesting technique.

On a warm, yet foreboding evening, much like the one today, it hatched without complications, and We raised it with an attentive and tender disposition, before killing it on its third birthday for supper.

I think about it from time to time, and My initial guilt has since dispersed into a self-gratified nostalgia.