poetry, novella?
Amazing story of a mother who has died, leaving Dad and Boys behind. And Crow. Chapters alternate between them. Who Crow is, is left to the reader. Mystical, mesmerizing.
Amazing read.
But I care, deeply. I find humans dull except in grief. There are very few in health, disaster, famine, atrocity, splendour or normality that interest me (interest ME!) but the motherless children do. Motherless children are pure crow. For a sentimental bird it is ripe, rich and delicious to raid such a nest.
We will never fight again, our lovely, quick, template-ready arguments. Our delicate cross-stitch of bickers.
BOYS
She was beaten to death, I once told some boys at a party.
Oh shit mate, they said.
I lie about how you died, I whispered to Mum.
I would do the same, she whispered back.
Moving on, as a concept, is for stupid people, because any sensible person knows grief is a long-term project. I refuse to rush. The pain that is thrust upon us let no man slow or speed or fix.
