Golden Crested Crane

I WAKE BEFORE the sun. In the garden, my grandmother Shosho is already hard at work. I rush to finish weeding before breakfast and accidentally yank a bean plant. In my hurry to collect the eggs, two slip from my hands.

“Muthoni,” Shosho scolds. “We are Kimani women. We move with grace like the golden crested crane. We do not zip around like weaverbirds, too busy to enjoy life. We do not slump and wait for something bad to happen, like the buzzard. We are not sneaky like the owl.”

Shosho pours porridge into two dishes. She watches me scoop the mush into my