The Pink Shawl

• Siyan Bao, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2022

My grandmother's pink shawl was at the end of her bed. My grandfather left us two years ago, so it was just my mother and me. My father had remarried when I was young and left us nothing but the clothes on our backs. The little run-down shack we called home did nothing to protect us. The summer air was hot and sticky. My grandmother laid on the only bed, the life slowly draining out of her.
"Come close my dear, come close. You see my favourite shawl?" My grandmother spoke slowly, softly. I nodded. "It's yours now." She smiled. It was a pained smile, but it was genuine. That night, she left us before suppertime. I was ten at the time.
For five years, we mourned her. For five years, we survived. We sold everything of hers and used that money to feed and clothe ourselves. We sold everything but my grandmother's pink shawl. I wrap the shawl tighter around my shoulders, the slight autumn breeze brushing my cheeks. The streets are busy during this time of year. Everybody is preparing for the harsh winter when it’s too cold to go out and too bare to grow crops. Everybody else has thick layers on, all unharmed from the breeze. The winter is slowly coming, I can feel it from the wind. I quickly hand over two silver pieces to a baker, receiving a loaf of bread in return.
Mother is in bed when I arrive home. I cut a slice of bread, add a piece of what little cheese we have, and bring it to my mother. We used the money we made wisely, but it's not enough. These days we eat smaller and smaller portions, now that the money is needed for mother's medicine. She's getting worse by the day. Mother fell ill last winter when the virus went around. She didn't get symptoms until recently, but you could see the change in her demeanour. The doctor says that she's doing well considering all things, but that it won't last.
I’m always going to be alone. I know it. Mother is not getting better; today might just be her last day. The streets are full today, everyone doing their rounds before the predicted snow later. There is nothing for me here, so I head back home. Really, I shouldn't be surprised, but it doesn't stop it from hurting. Mother is gone from the bed, collapsed on the floor, a pool of red around her head. I run from the house again, my vision blurry as I run into the snow. My foot collides with a block of snow, and I trip, falling face-first into the freezing white. Suddenly the cold hits me, and I reach unconsciously toward any clothing I have. My hand reaches into my pocket, pulling out the one thing I have left. My grandmother's beloved pink shawl. It flies out of my hand into the sky as visions of my grandmother blur in my sight.