Tap, tap, tap. His beak like a schoolmarm finger. Let me in, the crow says in Crowspeak.
You still speak Crowspeak from the time 20 crows banded together and snatched Jimmy Parker away as the two of you walked to the movies. This would be your last date with Jimmy. The one where he tells you he’s in love with Maureen and he’s very, very sorry.
There’s no word for sorry in Crowspeak. To a crow, a thing is a thing is a thing. And if you did it, you meant it. One of the crows later told you he had seen Jimmy and Maureen together at the park, holding hands. The crows liked you a lot from the time you fed the lost crowbaby that was outside near the garage. Loyalty is big with crows, it seems.
You open the window and invite the crow in. He crosses the wooden sill with his scraggled clawfeet. You offer him coffee. You aren’t sure if crows drink coffee. but you offer anyway. It’s just good manners like your mother always told you. Your mother also told you to stop feeding all the birds that come into the garden. She said, don’t worry, its mama will come back. Later that day, the crows snatched your mother up, too.
You liked your mother, loved her, in fact, but there were times…
Like when she scattered your friends away from your 10th birthday party because they refused to wear the silly pointy hats she bought. Or the time she told your father to leave and never come back.
Part of you understood this. Your father loved another woman. You overheard him telling your mother one afternoon when you should have been doing your homework. Your father was mostly gone anyway, always out at night when he should have been home for supper. When he left, you almost, almost didn’t feel it.
Now, the crow is standing on the table. You set the cup of coffee in front of him. He waves his beak around as if savoring the aroma and then dives its beak straight in. You ask the crow if he’d like some sugar. You offer him a piece of pie.
The crow pokes his head back up, his beak soaked and he shakes it off. He thanks you for the offer of pie but says he’s actually quite full. Then he asks you if this is the same coffee you bought yesterday at the ShopRite. When you wheeled your shopping cart out to your car and didn’t you notice the sick bird lying on the pavement?
You do remember the little bird and you did want to help it. But you thought of your mother at just that moment. How she told you that the mama bird would come back and tend to its baby, even though your own mother never did. You try to say you are sorry to the crow, but you also remember that there is no word for sorry in crowspeak.
By now, a cluster of crows is waiting on the windowsill.
You know why they are here. You put a toothbrush in your pocket for when they snatch you up. But right before you go outside, you press your whole face up to the windowpane, the smooth glass against your skin. You let the crows study your face. One of them might recognize you from the other time you helped their baby.
You walk outside and look at the crows. Forty pairs of black-bead eyes and not one seems to recognize you. No wait, you see one of them looking away, like it remembers you but doesn’t want to. Like it’s embarrassed even though you are pretty sure there is no such word as embarrassed in Crowspeak.
The air is thick with late October. Your mother’s roses wilting right there near the garage and the ghost of your father’s last footprints. You mouth the words forgive me.
And then you remember. There is no word for forgive in Crowspeak. Instead, you throw out words like help and please as the crows snatch you up and fly you deep into the swallowing sky. You give up on words. You give up on Crowspeak. Instead, you flap your arms, your wings, in surrender. You are one of them, just another lost bird without a mama. You wait for the crows to understand.
