Photo by K. K. on UnsplashThe day before he died, my father hung a pair of dead crows on a tall stake in his garden to warn murders away from the sweetcorn.
Three months after I scattered his ashes over my mother’s grave, black feathers still clung like shadow fragments to tattered, unharvested stalks.
By the time I finally found the strength to plow his garden under, four empty eye sockets filled with gusts of wind and whistled a hollow song.
And now, as I look in the mirror before bed, I notice that my once-blue eyes have become a kind of gray after-image of my father’s framed by crow’s feet. When I clear my voice to say good night to my wife, I hear his calling to me from a place not as far away today as it was just yesterday.
