What I did with my head
The crow continues to cry
Sunday April 13
6:22pm: As a baby I lived at my maternal grandparent’s house and it was there that I got a fever so high that my mother felt fear for the first time and it was there that our dog died and it was there that I first walked to kindergarten and it was there that my grandmother braided my hair better and it was there that my grandmother sewed me a midi skirt from a pair of old jeans and it was there that I heard my grandfather sing in the shower and it was there that he would forget his coffee in the microwave and it was there that he lost his memory and it was there that he watched the ghosts visit and it was there that he had his stroke and it was there that my grandmother came home alone and it was there that she heard his spirit call her name and it was there that my grandmother stopped driving and stopped gardening and stopped walking well and it will be there that she dies. And I wonder if it will be there that I come home alone and hear their spirits call my name.
your grandfather is accessing you today.
Monday April 14
7:02am: This morning the crow is crying and the car alarms are going off and I can’t seem to get my thoughts sorted into a steady stream and, as I am unable to do that, it is the heavy flutter of a small bird’s wings that startle me. The streets look dirty this morning and I feel heavy and sad. An owl hums with weighted sorrow. The crow continues to cry. A squirrel barks and skitters. A small bird falls from a tree.
you hear what you feel; try to feel what you hear.
Tuesday April 15
6:50am: My grandfather once sat me down and gave me a suitcase full of newspapers. In those newspapers he’d published a series of articles, written by him, about the rebuild he’d done on his home. The journey and the process and the difficulty of it. I never read the articles but I’ve kept them tightly capsulated in the briefcase over the years. I now wonder if that was his way of saying, here is a history of the home where your children will grow.
you are listening; keep waiting.
Wednesday April 16
7:10am: I’m in a space where I’m seeking answers from my time in meditation. I’m trying to ask only for what I need to hear. I’m trying only to ask for access to myself. But I hear nothing and I cannot access myself. Which I know is a lesson in trusting the unknown path. I can paint the walls even if I don’t stay in the home. That sort of thing.
one day you’ll be there and you’ll see how the answers, and the access, needed to wait.
Thursday April 17
7:12pm: My grandfather used to wait in the doorway of my room in his home. He would wait until I would wake and then he’d tell me breakfast was on the stove. That grandma was stirring the cream of wheat on the stove. She’ll add butter and brown sugar and it will all meet in the middle of the bowl. He’d stand as a tall shadow in that doorway and wait for me. Like he’d wait for me on the schoolyard. An umbrella when it would rain. White sneakers in the sunlight.
Grandma used to swim with me in the pool out back. Now she can hardly see the hummingbirds