One sweet day jesus was crossing the road at the zebra crossing and got mown down by a silver Honda Civic.
The difference between alive and dead, here and there, was really quite distinct. Reflective white paint / dust-covered black-blue gooey stuff. That is, except that actually getting from one to the other took a while.
There he lay, several feet from the curb, all crushed and torn up inside. His back was broked and his lungs were poked. His ribs were smashed and his spleen was mashed. On that day, a child called Billie, took her trike for a ride.
She stopped near the dying jesus and got off. His worldvision was starting to blur and was gaining a purplish butcher’s shop-window hue. One of his eyes had swollen shut, he had blood in his beard and some road debris– wire– had caught in his hair. He’d been lying there half an hour and didn’t have much longer.
“Oh great. I’m saved”, thought jesus. “This kid’ll see me and get help. An ambulance will come.” He quit his slow crawl and stretched a shaking arm up toward the kid. He tried making noise but not much made it past the bile and blood flooding his mouth. It made a bubble.
He was making this effort but because someone had finally found him, he felt like he would be alright.
Billie frolicked about and then sat down on the curb near jesus. She looked at him.
“WANNA PLAY BARBIES?”
She wedged a doll into jesus’ outstretched pain-wracked claw. Billie played, talked and sang to herself.
He expired like that and as he did, a hard-boiled egg, that he was taking home to his mother, slid gently from his other hand and rolled to a stop in the gutter.
Billie picked it up and put it in the pocket of her dress. Later on that day she gave it to a woman who she thought was jesus, because the woman had long hair the same mouse-brown colour as his.
From that day, it has become custom to receive an egg if not from a girl-child, then at least from a girl (or woman) younger than you.