Shariana Westfall

Owl Eyes

It was a somber winter morning. I awoke to the rooster’s crow, something that happens every day. The events from yesterday morning came flooding back to me. As I lay there thinking of why I didn’t wake up, I became more restless. With a sharp inhale I began to get ready for the day. It was always cold during the winter months, but this morning seemed extra chilly. Snow covered the ground and it was difficult to walk in. It was just the three of us in our small, comfortable home. My father had died unexpectedly some years before and I was the only child. My grandmama came to live with us when my grandfather passed of old age nearly five years ago. As I pulled on my winter boots the rooster crowed again shaking me from my thoughts. Before I went out the door I peeked into the living room. Grandmama was resting in her old, woven chair in front of the fireplace. Her feet were propped up to keep her legs comfortable and a blanket was draped over them. My mother was close by with her hand on Grandmama’s knee. It looked as if she hadn’t slept all night tending to her and the fire. Neither one of them looked in my direction but I could see the faint rise in Grandmama’s chest. Tears began to pillow on my cheeks and I quietly escaped into the early morning.