She Used To Be a Go-Getting Grandma

Crow arrives for dinner, possibly from way beyond the veil. Nightly, she spreads her voice around dining room window. The children in the family used to comment when we heard Crow. Now it is just Old Gran and I. She cannot hear the crow any more. I do not mention Crow. Loss of hearing is just one more sad truth for Gran. Nightly, she eats in silence, as do I, feeling her goodness she keeps to herself these days. She used to be a go-getting grandma. She would drive up and down the rural roads Chasing crows, squirrels, rabbits, fox, whatever touched her heart that day. I wish I could fly like the robins, sparrows, cardinals, blue jays and crows, she would say. We would ponder where they would travel. Did they go sixty miles, eighty, two hundred? I was always going to look it up, but did not. The internet is painfully slow; a dial-up connection. I feel like we live in the dark ages here. I prefer looking at my internet at work. “Come!” Grandma said. “I think I see something.” She pulled back the lace curtain. I pretended excitement, thinking it was Crow. “Where is it?” I asked, looking out. “I think it was a raven,” she said, “Or a hawk, a predator for sure. “ This is when I knew She had forgotten the word “crow” for this is the bird she raised from a baby. So sad.