Sophie Odira-Hansing

Motherhood

On Sunday evenings the mice in my garden shiver. I never knew that animals could have such an acute sense of schedule, shivering because every Sunday the white barn owl feasts. She swoops from tree to tree, gliding mere meters from the ground before diving in amongst waves of grass and reemerging with one of their kin. Sometimes I sit and watch her, asking myself if I would give up my life for hers. The power of flight, the cunning of a killer, the freedom to eat, sleep and soar. I look at my hands grasping a lukewarm cup of coffee, a half-smoked cigarette and returning my gaze to the sky notice that the owl has decided my barren land has nothing to offer. Mice that do dwell here sigh in relief and continue with their daily activities. My ears are bitten with a January breeze as I shiver, deciding to abandon the other half of my cigarette in exchange for warmth. The house is quiet, save the clock ticking obnoxiously at me, I can hear the walls shrink and expand with each of my breaths. My cage, interrupting my thoughts, she screams, the source of my entrapment- waking up as the birds go to sleep. I must feed her. Her cries pierce my ears as I lift her to my chest to console her. Speaking in this ridiculous voice and smiling without my eyes. It does not help. She can feel me. Why can't I feel her? She refuses her bottle and so I sit rocking back and forth with my child by my cheek. Although I've just escaped from the cold, all that will soothe her is the evening air, and so I wrap both of us up for a walk.