The chimes of the cowbell vibrated my window, rousing me awake. Sunlight was peeking into my bedroom, heating me up as I laid beneath the sheets. Leaning over the window sill, I could see Grandmother, walking outside.

She was draped in a gossamer white sari as she shuffled through the freshly cut grass, herding a cluster of sheep back to their pen.

I rubbed my eyes as I stumbled out of bed.

Like clockwork, the roosters squawked. In the distance, I thought I heard crows caw too. I splashed warm water onto my face as the spice of my citrus cleanser freed my sinuses.

I pulled on a black tunic. It seemed like a good color to wear, I thought, looking at my reflection in the faded mirror hanging above my sink. The glint from a single strand of hair caught my eye.

“Is that a gray hair?” I said out loud before plucking it from my scalp and tossing it into the trash bin. I shuddered as I braided my hair back.

I glided into the kitchen where the kettle was already hissing for my attention. I was just in time to pour the boiling water over loose tea leaves.

The backdoor moaned as Grandmother stepped inside. Her face glistened with a thin layer of sweat.

“Thank you for heating the water,” I said, delicately carrying two teacups to the table. Warm liquid sloshed just barely over the rim of the cups as I tried to gently set them down on the worn oak dining table.

Grandmother’s nostrils flared widely as she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the fragrant steam of masala chai.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” she said.

Since I was a little girl, it was our ritual to share breakfast together. Grandmother would wake before dawn to feed the chickens, walk the sheep, water the garden, as I slept the early hours away. Even as I grew older, Grandmother insisted on waking up early to tend to the animals.

“It’s a joy to rise,” she said whenever Mother complained that I should take over the chores.

I reminded myself that I had churned the butter, as I took a long knife and scraped a heap of softened butter onto my toast. I watched the milk solids melt into the pores of the bread, my mouth salivating.

Grandmother didn’t reach for the bread, which she normally enjoyed for breakfast every morning. Instead, she sipped her tea quietly, her gaze distant.

“The bread is quite delicious today,” I said after taking a bite. “Can I cut you a slice?”

Grandmother set her teacup down and smiled. Her gray eyes were full like clouds teasing rain.

“Isn’t the bread always delicious?” she said as she pushed her chair back from the table and rose to her feet. Over the years, she’d grown smaller due to osteoporosis. Her once straight spine curved into a hunch that seemed to grow more pronounced every time I saw her, bringing her closer to the ground. But despite shrinking back to the earth, she seemed springy this morning.

“I think I’ll take a rest,” she said in her classic sing-song voice.

“OK,” I replied.

As Grandmother walked to her room, she turned back to me. Her gray eyes were clearer now. ‘I guess it isn’t going to rain,’ I thought.

“You should make some extra food, my dear. I imagine you’ll have some company later.”

Confused, I looked up at the family calendar hanging in the kitchen. There were no engagements. I wasn’t quite sure what she meant, but my mouth was full of toast, so I didn’t say anything as Grandmother disappeared into her bedroom.

‘Old age,’ I thought as I sliced myself another piece of bread.

After breakfast, I went out to gather the ripened fruit hanging from our trees. Then I swept the house, washed the dishes, and cooked up a small batch of white rice and fish for lunch before escaping to my bedroom to read.

As the afternoon sun started to glow, I went back to the kitchen. The white rice and fish I’d left for Grandmother was untouched.

‘Strange,’ I thought. She always said a hearty lunch and a light dinner made her feel younger.

I walked to her door and knocked. After a moment of silence, I entered.

There I saw her, lying on her back, in the middle of her bed. She was still. Her nostrils, unmoving.

Jareen Imam is a writer, journalist, and interdisciplinary artist. She enjoys interviewing people and telling stories. In her writing and her artwork, she likes to explore the intersection of love, technology, and nature. A South Florida native who now lives in New York, she’s currently writing her first book.