Things Lost and Taken

By Melissa Jornd

The crow showed up a few days after Grandma’s funeral, when Daddy looked cleaner than ever, and Mama cried so loud she started hiccupping, and Grand-Aunt Ettie kept shooting her nasty glances while the choir sang. During the eulogy, Grand-Aunt Ettie pointedly talked about humility and the divine plan, and how we should celebrate God’s soldier returning home.

At that, Daddy led us from the church. We rode home in silence, Daddy’s face full of heavy lines. Earlier that year, Mama had started teaching me art, and I imagined painting him: flat, broad strokes for the cheeks; light and dark layers for the deep mountain ridges of his forehead. His fingers interlocked with Mama’s would have made a nice painting, but I hadn’t learned hands yet.

Once home, Mama announced she was going to lay down, even though the sun still sat high in the sky. After that, I only saw her under the covers. I wanted her to be Mama again, kneading dough in the mornings, spending sunny afternoons outside, swirling colors on canvas until they became familiar sights: Grandma and me, feeding the ducks; Daddy on his tractor; even the dairy farmer dropping off bottles, smile white as milk. But she stayed locked away.

Daddy tried, he really did. I’d find him in the kitchen studying recipe cards, frowning while chopping ingredients like he was sure this wouldn’t work.

He was right. I loved Daddy, but his food was awful. There was a reason Daddy collected the food but Mama cooked it. The first night he tried roasted chicken with heirloom carrots straight from our land. We had to open all the windows to release the smoke; Daddy threw the char-black food, pans and all, onto the porch.

The next morning a mud-brown omelet joined the food outside. Daddy was looking sadly at the pantry when the doorbell rang. Mrs. Fitzgerald, our neighbor, stood with a casserole dish.

“Hi, Amie,” she said. “Thought I’d pop by.” Daddy appeared then, and they started talking the way adults do, all breezy and circular. No one mentioned Mama upstairs. Mrs. Fitzgerald didn’t say she saw the failed meals outside. But I knew she’d noticed both.

Daddy knew, too. Once she left, his smile melted away and he stared at that casserole for a long time. Finally, he plated three pieces, leaving me one before heading upstairs.

###

I was eating cold casserole and wishing for Mama’s bread when a flurry of feathers flew past the window. Intrigued, I peeked out and saw a night-dark bird pecking at the food graveyard before grabbing the pan’s handle. I didn’t know if Daddy wanted to save the pan, so I tapped on the panes.

Offended, the crow beat its wings before settling on the art table, which was littered with paintbrushes and paint tubes.

Then I really ran.

“Git!” I shouted.

“Krah!” it shouted back; something glinted as it took flight. Reaching the table, I realized it stole Mama’s green paintbrush, the fine-tipped one. It wasn’t her favorite, but my stomach tightened, knowing she’d lost yet another thing.

Mrs. Fitzgerald came out to hang her laundry a few moments later.  “How are you, Amie?” she asked.

“A crow stole Mama’s brush.” I wanted to cry.

“Ah.” Mrs. Fitzgerald nodded. “They like shiny things, crows, and they’re awfully clever. But they’re fascinating. They’ve been known to bring people gifts. They can even hold a grudge.”

She kept talking but my mind was off forming a plan. I was smarter than a crow. I’d get that paintbrush back, and Mama along with it.

###

I searched the house and grabbed flashy items the crow might like, then dumped the eclectic mix on the porch. But that first day the crow stayed away, seemingly wary of the bounty. It made me think maybe I wasn’t smarter than a crow, and I went to bed grumpy.

I heard the krah the next morning and ran downstairs, still in my nightgown. There it was, picking through the pile. It fluttered away at my approach, but I was encouraged.

The next few days passed by in a blur of casseroles and experiments. Grandma would’ve known how to befriend the crow immediately—I pictured her backyard, flush with birds of all colors and sizes, flitting between feeders as they chirped. But Grandma wasn’t here.

On the fifth day of Amie versus Crow, I left my half-finished casserole on the porch while I grabbed some milk. When I came back, the crow was pecking at the cheese. I thought about yelling but sighed instead. The crow thought about squawking but huffed instead. After a short standoff, I went inside and grabbed another piece. We sat on the porch, eyeing each other, eating our meals.

The next day, two plates in hand, an unfamiliar shape caught my eye in the gift pile: a pale clothespin. I picked it up, mesmerized. Mrs. Fitzgerald was right.

It wasn’t the paintbrush, but I still found myself smiling as I slipped it into my pocket.

###

Eleven days after the funeral, I came downstairs to the kitchen looking like before: covered dough rising, yellow (yellow!) eggs on the stove. I heard a faint but familiar noise outside.

Mama.

She stood in front of a new canvas. Most of it was early background, pastel colors of a sleepy sunrise. But I saw the outlines: me on the porch, eating. Across from my figure was a small, curved shape, one intelligent eye half-painted.

“Your grandma would’ve loved that crow,” Mama said quietly. She must have been watching from upstairs, not as confined to her bed as I thought.

“That crow stole your brush,” I told her. “I couldn’t get it back.” Mama looked at me, then pulled me close. We stood together like that a long time, thinking of things lost and taken, and what we received in return. The crow circled above, cawing; for just a moment, I thought I saw the silhouette of a paintbrush in its grip.