Chicken Coop

When I found Granny in the chicken coop where she’d been collecting eggs, she was hunched down in the hay as if looking for pennies at the fair and her hair looked like a poodles, tiny curls that hadn’t been combed out yet. I’d said, “Granny—did you get your hair fixed up?” She didn’t answer. So I just watched her, still and leaning over, wondering if the hay was hurting her knees and that’s when I saw the pieces of eggshells crushed underneath her outspread fingers. The clear coagulated ooze surrounding her hands, yellow streaks in the pools. I came closer to her and patted the curls on her head, still wet, but soft. “It looks professional Granny, like a movie star,” I’d whispered. Nothing. Then Momma opened the little door and squeezed in behind me, “What’re you two doing in here? Tryin’ to lay eggs yourself?” And I knew something was wrong, and I knew my Momma didn’t know yet (by her tone), and all I could say was, “Feel Granny’s hair Momma, it feels like a baby-dolls.” The chickens started up the plank toward the opening that Granny was in front of and Momma started throwing hay at them yelling, “Git, Git, Git,” sounding like chicken Morse code and they must have understood, ‘cause they started flapping their wings and walking backwards with the claws of their feet dangling on the walkway, making a terrible scratching sound.