Miriam, walking into the kitchen, sees the crow and freezes. Standing in relief, it blinks against the black backsplash of the kitchen counter. A week ago, during her usual nighttime routine she squinted from the hallway and dismissed it as a shadow because she wasn’t wearing her glasses, having memorized every creaky floorboard and door jamb over the past forty years. Miriam is relieved when it flaps and caws as she inches closer, less worried her daughter’s prediction- that she is losing her mind- is coming true.
Zoe wants to move her into assisted living. But how can she leave her home, her husband’s shirts hanging in the closet, the finger paintings still on the wall? Miriam knows Zoe won’t take her in, so she doesn’t ask. Miriam always admired Zoe, for speaking her mind and not taking crap from anyone. But how she birthed someone so different is astounding. Zoe, an environmental lawyer, didn’t seem to inherit either of their traits. Her introvert father preferred to get lost in endless galaxies and orbits of the planets while Miriam preferred the never ending spin of the pottery wheel. He had no problem finding work though while Miriam struggled to make a living at ceramic art. Her sister would remark that no one will pay $300; you can buy mass produced bowls for $3.
Zoe is a different bird, navigating life effortlessly. And while Miriam is proud, Zoe is constantly frustrated with her mother’s eccentricities and mess. Sifting through the magazines, clothes and art piled up like decorative pyres, Zoe would query how she could live in such chaos? Miriam would retort with her favorite Szymborska quote: preferring the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
Now, as she stares into that circle within a circle in the crow’s eye she is mesmerized as he or she watches her drink tea. She tries to look up sexing a crow but it only brings up disturbing results and what did it matter? She calls it Crow Jane, admiring the sheen glinting off the soft black feathers. When she returns from the dentist, the crow is gone. Slightly disappointed but also somewhat relieved, she orders Greek food, closing the windows before falling into bed fully clothed.
A crow cacophony wakens her early, as two crows fight over her leftover dinner. The next day there are three. One defecates in the sink. Out, she screams. Then there are five, then eight. They no longer ruffle when she enters the room. The full moon brings thirteen and at twenty-one she becomes uneasy. At least they stay quiet at night and often leave for hours. Only Crow Jane alights on her shoulder, she strokes her soft head.
She spends her days researching crows and waylaying her daughter with short texts of I’m good or good night. Zoe will be enraged by her new found hobby. She learns how crows memorize faces and can complete eight step puzzles. Then the gifting begins. She is overjoyed to find small shiny pebbles, pieces of metal, round washers, buttons and broken pieces of jewelry on her counter. Her favourite, a small silver square broken locket.
Day twenty-eight, thirty-four crows fill the house, some nest on top of the cupboards. She uses them in her new black and white video project until furious doorbell ringing and yelling interrupt her recording. It takes a while to try and shoo the crows into the back rooms and though most comply she can still hear the squawking. Three remain. She slips onto the porch pulling the door behind her.
Mom…finally.
Zoe balks at Miriam’s appearance. She’s revived the uniform of her youth- black leggings, tunic, Robert Smith hair and eyeliner. I have been calling and texting all day.
I guess I didn’t hear, she attempts feebly. Want to go for lunch, my treat? How about that cool place with comfy couches?
I want to come in, Zoe insists.
Miriam relents knowing her daughter won’t. It isn’t in her nature. The kitchen’s clear. Zoe might have ignored the back rooms if it wasn’t for the caw, CAW. Six crows lurch from the darkness chasing her screaming to the front step.
Miriam’s explanations are drowned out by the screeching.
Mom, what is happening, Zoe is wide eyed.
I have acquired a new hobby.
Being a crazy crow-lady?
I’m not a crow lady. I am a crow enthusiast and many share my passion.
This is ridiculous. I don’t want to find you murdered by crows.
Good pun.
Zoe stares angrily but then softens her tone.
I’ll find a good place for you. You know Grandad loved it and Aunt Patty is thriving. Why would you rather live like a crazy bird-lady?!
I know you are different but you have to trust me. My crows will never hurt me.
Zoe blinks rapidly, displaying her anxiety.
Did you know, crows blink more often when agitated?
Don’t deflect.
I’m not deflecting. Don’t you want me to be happy?
This is weird, even for you.
I won’t go to old people prison. It’s like night of the living dead in there.
Did you know the kids at school used to call you Edward Scissorhands!?”
Isn’t that a compliment? German expressionism is art and if you read more instead of working so much you’d know.
I’m calling the exterminator!
Okay, okay. Maybe it is a bit unusual but I’m handling it. Let’s have dinner tomorrow at the place down by the harbour, the reviews are good, even for picky eaters.
I’m not picky, just not as adventurous as you.
And I promise to dress normal, like a cereal commercial Mother.
Zoe eyes Miriam warily and Miriam feels Zoe’s tension as they hug goodbye. Watching her drive away Miriam promises herself that she will find a way to keep her crows- maybe in the backyard studio if they cooperate. Returning inside she’s greeted with a symphony of screeching. She starts the Bauhaus record and resumes filming her dance to Bela Lugosi’s Dead amidst the black feathers.
