In Memory of a Crow

He was wandering around the concrete parking space in which our property manager parks. He looked old with a bit of gray around his neck, but the rest of his feathers were shiny and black. The fact that he was wandering around instead of flying and seemed confused made me worry that he was of a sufficiently advanced age that he would pass away soon. I didn't want to startle him, so I walked no closer than about five feet and I said to him, “Don't die alone.”

Five days later, I was sitting at my desk and I heard a rustling noise in a very tall tree across the parking lot and opposite my window. I looked over and thought I saw a dead branch with something black on it fall down. At first, I thought a squirrel had made a bad judgment and perched on a dead branch, but when I looked down at the ground, I saw that it was a black bird. I suspected at that time that it was him, but figured he'd probably fly away if I went near.

I watched from the window to see what his disposition was. His black wings were each splayed out to one side and he seemed to be struggling to get up on his feet. Wings flapping, he managed to finally “sit up” and after some time passed and he did not move, I went down to discern his disposition.

Once again, I didn't want to approach too closely as I didn't want to alarm him, especially if he was already in a bad way from the fall of about 20 feet. I said, “Are you okay?” He gave me no notice and just seemed to look around and sit there. I wondered if he was dazed from the fall and would recover and move along when he was less stunned so I went back inside.

After an hour had passed, and he did not move from his spot at the front of a numbered parking spot, I went down to check on his condition. He was quiet, but I wondered if he needed some water in the California drought so I collected some in a plastic container and took it down. As I approached quite closely, he didn't seem to see me at all. Cloudy eyes blinked and his head moved from side to side. I put the water near him and attempted to put a little on his beak so he could feel it and maybe know that water was nearby. The reaction to my efforts was utter obliviousness. I left him in peace for a time and went back into my apartment.

Another 30 or so minutes went by, and he still had not moved and I became more concerned. When I climbed down the stairs a third time to check on him, I found him making squeaky noises and occasionally fluttering his wings. I suspected he was dying, or at the least injured and in pain, so I called the animal control agency and talked to a woman named “Lisa.” She told me their people were far away and couldn't come for at least a few hours, but asked if I could put him in a box with paper towels at the bottom and on the top to keep him until they arrived. She told me to pick him up with a towel and not to directly touch him or give him food or water because he could drown if he was internally injured.

With the phone to my ear, I looked down and saw that he was not moving and told her that he may have already died. She encouraged me to investigate and call her back. I took my box and towel and found him struggling to breath and making noises which sounded like the crow version of a death rattle. As I very gently wrapped the softest towel I had around his body, he seemed not to react at all. It was as if he'd already been removed from the external world and was utterly focused on his internal experience. I called Lisa back and she said they'd come for him even if he died while I kept him.

“I didn't want you to die alone,” I told him and I watched him in the box for a little while. There were greenish fluids occasionally spreading out on the paper towels on the bottom. He sometimes shifted his head around or tried to flap his wings and the rattling sounds became somewhat more pronounced. I wondered if he would have preferred to die alone in the parking lot on concrete four feet from the tree he'd fallen out of. Would he prefer to be out in what passed for “nature” in these parts than to be in my apartment in a cardboard shipping box from Amazon? “I didn't want you to die alone,” I repeated.

Fifteen minutes passed and he seemed to make one final shift and attempt to spread his wings and fly, then he and stopped struggling. He wrapped his wings close to his body and lay his head down as if surrendering to the inevitable. His body heaved as he breathed for just a little while longer and then he grew still. An ant that came along for the ride roamed about the paper towel in the box. Somehow, this seemed fitting as crows rub ants all over their bodies to ward off parasites. The ant was like the servant buried with the pharaoh to serve him in the afterlife.

We have a candle that was given to us by a woman who works doing therapy for people in grief. It's a tall yellow candle in a tubular-shaped glass vessel. It just so happened to have a paper crane tied to the side with a ribbon. In Japan, these origami cranes symbolize luck. If you make a thousand of them, you are supposed to have eternally good fortune. I only had one crane. For the crow, there could be no luck, but I made a memorial for him. The box with paper towels was his casket, and I burned a candle to light his way and to observe the loss of his life from this world.

I cried when I was sure he'd died. I cried because he didn't die with other crows. I cried because something that was alive was no longer so and it always feels as though the earth has suffered a loss of complex energy patterns. I cried because I worried that he'd suffered at the end. I cried because he seemed to be alone for days and I don't think any creature should be so alone.

At least he did not die alone. He died with me.

Two Bottles

The car was a boat, but this wasn't a problem because gas was only 35 cents a gallon. My sister got to sit in the front seat while a large paper sack of groceries and two glass one-quart bottles of soda occupied the back seat with me. The seats were dark gray vinyl, but worn in the spots that people planted their posteriors. I was in the middle of one of these whitish areas, sans seatbelt, as was the style in those days.

I couldn't see over the seats and had little interest in the contents of the grocery bag. My mother stopped at a stoplight, and I looked over at the two bottles. One of them was green with a white shield design on the label. The other was clear with a dark liquid. I could read then, but not particularly well. I knew one bottle was ginger ale, and the other was cola.

As I sat there waiting for the light to change and signal the changing of scenery, I felt bored and decided to see what would happen if I pushed the two bottles together. At nearly the moment that the light changed, I pushed one into the other. There was a noise as the glass shattered and the liquid spilled all over the seats. My finger started to bleed and I began to cry.

I cried out of fear rather than out of pain. My mother verbally lashed out at me severely if I made even the smallest mistake, and I'd just made a very big one. Instead of being angry with me, my mother pulled over and was filled with concern for my copiously bleeding finger. She thought the bottles had broken because of the car's movement. She didn't know that it was my fault, and I never told her.

The Green Towel

An enormous green towel was wrapped around her head. It was the sort that people tend to use to dry their bodies rather than their hair. The way it was swirled around resembled an overly loaded soft serve ice cream cone. In her case, it would have been matcha - Japanese green tea - flavored.

She was wearing a sleeveless scoop-necked flower-printed top and a pair of white pants. Her body was a little pudgy with the sort of flabby arms that indicated the encroachment of middle age or perhaps the ravages of weight gained through successive child-bearing. The flesh at the top was slightly reddish and speckled with blemishes.

Most of the time, she faced the objects of her interest, a large number of bulging trash bags sitting in front of a sealed Goodwill collection container. The container, which is usually manned by a bored old gentleman who wiles away the time listening to music on an antiquated boombox, is like the back-end of a semi truck without it's cab.

People had dropped their donations off outside of the unmanned container on the weekend and the towel-headed lady was rummaging through them. Occasionally, she'd toss an item into the heap of junk in the bed of her white pick-up truck. The truck's size and shape indicated its age, though the body seemed to be in fair condition and paint relatively intact. Unlike modern trucks that have angled cabs with organically rounded edges and sleek, narrow beds, this one was boxy and huge. Keeping the gas tank in it likely set her back a pretty penny.

I walked by her on my way to the store, blue parasol in hand and black backpack strapped on. I was going to the discount market around the corner and down the block. My presence did nothing to interrupt her task and she continued to busy herself with rummaging through lumpy black and white plastic bags despite my presence. Unwanted items were left strewn over the ground as she skipped the middle-man in acquiring other people's unwanted possessions.