Author's Note: This essay was originally presented as a lecture at the Chautauqua Institution. Many thanks to Atom Atkinson and the organizers of the Chautauqua Literary Arts Program. In the weeks in the run-up to Easter, my nana, Pastora Mendoza, teases for breakfast the raw egg from the pinhole she’s carefully punctured in order to keep the eggshell whole and unbroken. After she has washed and dried it, she’ll save the shell safely back in its carton. With four or five dozen collected, she’ll color the shells—dipping them in dyes, ladling and cradling the empty eggs with a tablespoon. After she paints them, bright pastels for the season, she fills them with paper-punched confetti and seals the eggs again with colored tape and crepe paper.