The Crows Came Today

The burden of too much knowledge.

The crows came today. They sat upon my garden fence and called to me. I counted eight and

cried. Not that I was surprised to see them. I’ve been expecting them for a long, long time.

For a split second, I wondered if the message would change if I grabbed the old Winchester

from above the hearth and picked off a few. A couple of the crows squawked and shuffled as

the thought slipped by, and I smiled a bit when the rifle was replaced in my mind by the old

phrase “don’t shoot the messenger.” Besides, the message was delivered already.

 

I remember the first time I heard that rhyme. It was so long ago, but if I close my eyes, I can

see Miranda and Gram on the porch at the old farm. Gram in her favorite rocking chair,

sunlight glinting off her round glasses, a wrinkle on her face for every one of her countless

smiles and laughs. Miranda in her sun dress and scuffed white shoes, her blond hair in

pigtails and fresh scrapes on her knee.

 

Gram loved us all, but she shared a connection with Miranda that I didn’t quite understand. I

was an adventurous kid, and once my chores were done there was nothing I wouldn’t climb

up or crawl under looking for something interesting, like frogs at the edge of the pond or

snakes hiding under a rotting log. Miranda preferred to spend her time on the porch with

Gram. Sometimes, I could get her to swing on the rope or play a game of tag. This usually

ended with Miranda showing Mom her newly skinned elbow or knee, the tracks of her tears

clearly visible on her dirty cheeks. I knew the only reason she agreed to leave the porch was

a sister’s love for her brother.  I would storm past Mom to my room and slam the door,

feeling guilty and angry that Miranda had been hurt �" again. Mom would tend to Miranda’s hurts, then try to tend to mine, telling me she wasn’t angry, that it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t believe her then, and I still don’t believe I wasn’t to blame, though I know I should.

 

Other times, I would try and stay on the porch with Gram and Miranda. I wanted to see what

was so compelling about just sitting and watching the afternoon sun bake the corn field.

Sometimes, you could see the plume of dirt from Dad’s tractor rising into the bright blue sky,

with no breeze to disperse the cloud or give any relief to the oppressive heat rising in waves

from the sun-baked earth. I never lasted long, mostly because I couldn’t stand the silence.

Miranda and Gram were quite comfortable to let the time pass without saying a word, but it

drove me crazy, and after a few short minutes, I would get up, jump off the porch and go find

something fun to do. Later, I wondered if they kept quiet while I was there to try to protect

me.

 

The day I heard the rhyme, I was giving another try to sitting with Miranda and Gram on the

porch. I felt guilty about the scrape on Miranda’s knee, received after I talked her into climbing the scraggly tree in the side yard. I was convinced I heard baby birds chirping for their mom somewhere hidden in the upper branches. We never made it high enough to see the birds, because Miranda slipped on a lower branch and slid down the rough tree bark, scraping her knee and tearing her dress. She had tried not to cry, tried to say she was ok, that we could still climb up and see the birds. I think the effort of holding the tears in made them all the stronger when they did come, and she sobbed, her back against the tree, her arms folded in front of her face as her whole body shook.

 

The next afternoon, I was still feeling guilty and a bit afraid that every time we played

together Miranda got hurt. I grounded myself, I suppose. What you now call a “time out.” I

was determined not to leave the porch, no matter how boring it was. I spent all afternoon with

Gram and Miranda. As usual, they just sat and watched the sun, Gram rocking ever so slowly,

and Miranda sitting on the floor with both legs curled to one side and her sun dress splayed

out. Unlike them, I couldn’t sit still and enjoy the peace and quiet. I explored the boundaries

of my self-imposed prison, looking for spider webs in the corner and plucking long weeds

that looked like wheat from the edge of the porch, flat on my stomach with my arms dangling

over the edge. After what seemed like forever, but was probably less than 20 minutes or so, a

shadow passed in front of the porch, and a number big, fat crows landed on the small section

of picket fence that separated our yard from the dirt driveway where the tractor rumbled in

and out of the barn. Gram stopped rocking and looked down at Miranda.

 

“Do you remember what that means?” She asked, and even though she asked quietly, the

break in the silence after such a long time made me jump.

 

Miranda sat up a bit, and she looked like a teacher had called on her in class. She was

looking up at the porch’s ceiling, trying to remember something. After a short time, Gram

spoke again. “Let’s say the rhyme together, ok ‘randa?” She spoke to Miranda like she was a

small child, even though Miranda was nine years old. Looking back, I suppose to Gram,

everyone was still a small child. Gram started off, and Miranda joined in, half saying, half

chanting the words:

 

One for sadness, two for mirth;

Three for marriage, four for birth;

Five for laughing, six for crying:

Seven for sickness, eight for dying;

Nine for silver, ten for gold;

Eleven, a secret that will never be told.

 

I remember not understanding what they were talking about, but not liking the words at all,

wishing I hadn’t heard them. “What is that supposed to mean?” I said, trying to sound angry,

but sounding whiny and frightened.

 

Now, it was Gram’s turn to jump. It was obvious she hadn’t realized or remembered I was

there. “It’s the crows, Will’m. They send us messages, if you know what they’re tellin’.” She

sounded almost sad when she said this, like she was passing on bad news.

 

“The number of crows that come means different stuff is gonna happen,” said Miranda, and I

could tell she liked knowing something her big brother didn’t. I remember being pretty

bothered about it at the time. Now, I realize knowledge isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be.

I squinted into the sun and counted out the number of crows. Seven, fat black birds with

beady eyes stared at the porch, twitching their heads from Miranda to Gram. To me. It was a

hot, dusty day, but I felt a chill run down my back as if someone had stuffed a snowball

down the back of my shirt.

 

“What do seven crows mean?” I whispered, dreading the answer.

 

“They mean someone’s sick, Will’m,” said Gram, that same sad smile on her face.

 

“Who’s sick?”

 

“The crows deliver messages to those who need them, Will’m, and this message is for me.”

Gram’s eyes brightened with tears, but none ran down her face. “It’s ok, Will’m, ‘randa. I’ve

been expecting them to visit for a while. Everything will be just fine.” She said the last part

to herself as much as to us as she stared at the crows.

 

No one spoke for a while. I wanted to jump off the porch, to chase the crows away. I didn’t

like them or their message. But I couldn’t leave the porch. I just stared at my hands, feeling

powerless.

 

Gram smacked her hands on the arms of her rocker. “C’mon, now. Let’s go have some cold

lemonade. Doesn’t that sound nice?” She gave an exaggerated groan as she heaved out of her

chair, making Miranda and I laugh a little. We followed Gram off the porch and into the

kitchen, and as I passed the screen door, I looked back over my shoulder at the picket fence.

The crows were gone.

 

I found out much later that Gram had cancer, and she died two months after that hot afternoon

on the porch. I never saw eight crows come down and land on our picket fence right before

she died, but I have no doubt they were there.

 

That was almost eighty years ago. I’ve had a full life. My wife passed a few years ago. My

children have moved away to seek their fortune and have their own adventures. I have no

regrets.

 

I have been visited by crows many times in my life. Most times, the number was a good one:

Four crows each for the birth of my sons and much later for my Grandchildren. Three on my

wedding day. Even ten crows landed outside my office window right before I received a big

promotion that allowed us to have the things we could never afford when I was a child.

Sometimes, the number was not as good, like when seven crows visited my house. One of

our boys was very small and frail when he was little. He got sick with pneumonia, and every

day, I dreaded seeing eight crows in my front yard. Thankfully, the eight crows did not come,

and he got better. Six crows have visited many times, marking many heartbreaks and

disappointments, as well as the tears that come when your children leave the nest to make a

life of their own.

 

Eight crows visited my home once before. I had both hoped and feared it was a message for

me, that my time had come. I made phone calls to my friends and family and made a special

meal for my wife, with candlelight and flowers. It was important that everyone knew how

much I loved them before the end. But instead, the message was for my life mate and partner

in crime. The morning after the crows came, I woke up and she didn’t. She was so peaceful,

a small smile on her face. I like to think that, when I tried to make my last night special, I

made her last one special instead.

 

And now the crows have given me their last message. It will be nice to see my wife and my

father again. I’m looking forward to sitting on the porch with Gram and Miranda, without

having to worry about crows.

 

I never told my children about the crows. If they notice them at all, I am sure they don’t place any significance on how many crows are squawking on their front lawn. I think it’s better that way. Sometimes, it’s better not to know what’s coming.

Author's Note

All constructive critiques are welcome!

Reviews

[Lynneanne]

I love the fact that this story came from three suggested sentences. (not that anyone but a few of us would know that!). I love the life journey of this story, the snapshots of the important people of his life affected by the crows, that porch and that poem. I even love the crows as messengers. People and cultures often have signs which help point them in a direction of predict the future. I liked seeing that kind of 'superstition' alive and well in middle America! :)

[Sharon Kim]

I really like how the speaker makes peace with the crows' message. In the beginning he hoped to change the message, but at the end, he really looked forward to being with lost loved ones.
This is probably my favorite part of the story-
Eight crows visited my home once before. I had both hoped and feared it was a message for

me, that my time had come. I made phone calls to my friends and family and made a special

meal for my wife, with candlelight and flowers. It was important that everyone knew how

much I loved them before the end. But instead, the message was for my life mate and partner

in crime. The morning after the crows came, I woke up and she didn’t. She was so peaceful,

a small smile on her face. I like to think that, when I tried to make my last night special, I

made her last one special instead.

It fills me with sweet sadness.

As for the crows as messengers- I think the speaker is right, it's probably better not to know than to be looking for signs all the time.
Great story!