Grandmother MichaudBy Mr. Willett

She positioned her eyes away from the glare reflected through the corner of the window.She remained motionless from every sound, as birches snapped from the wind and snow bundled against the house. “He will be home any minute,” said Grandmother Michaud said predictably.Her owl eyes peered through the most comfortably organic view in the house- satin curtains scaled and twirled to the hardwoods floors and velvet cushions billowed lie on the windowsill ledge.Looking nature like brush-stroked artwork.As the white Volvo made flattened tire tracks in the powdered snow on the driveway, all that was heard was the stretching of the tan, leather chair.Nothing was uttered. Her face was stamped like a photograph.“To prepare a scrumptious supper for my danger-tamer lover,” Grandmother Michaud uttered with relief as her frail husband grasped the rail outside and tapped his snow boots on the concrete stoop.After he stepped inside, they carried each other to the kitchen like snowflakes bound in their fall.