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As a child, my family's kitchen played host to many an argument (or as they liked to call them, "loud discussions") played out by my mother, her twin sister (my aunt Joan), and their mother (my grandmother). The three women were ever-present it seems, throughout my childhood, and looking back, were probably among the most influential people in my life. I was merely in my late teens or early twenties, however, when in the short span of just five years, I attended the funerals of all three, my mother being the last of them to pass. |
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In close proximity to her gravesite I found a crow feather, perhaps worn and frayed, yet in my mind's eye, a perfect flight feather; ebony black with glimmering iridescences of purple, blue and turquoise. I gently pushed the quill into the soft earth where the newly sowed grass seed had not yet sprouted and from that moment on, whenever I heard the raucous call of a crow or spotted one perched on a fence post, Mom came to mind. Oddly enough, in times when I need her most and in times when I am unsure of which direction to take, crows seem to appear as if by magic. And when they do, more often than not, there are three of them. Bob Noonan, 2009