Last night Sam and I went to the garden and picked our first summer squash and our last radish (yes, that grossly split, distorted red and white object was at one time a handsome radish in its prime). He picked our first raspberries and gathered the eggs.
I should have said that to Mom more often. And paid closer attention to what she was saying.
Because I can't remember if the little eggs are the beginning or the ending. I remember Mom explaining it to us. Googling would be cheating, but I'm fairly certain that the small eggs are the end.
That's based on the wisdom of menopause.