Squawk——! Caw! Caw! Caw!
“Mama!” You yell from the dirty kitchen, a look of disdain in the way your brows furrowed, glaring at the avian perched upon the windowsill. Your fingertips were wrinkly from washing the greasy pan from lunch as you dried them off. “The crows are back!”
With a beady eye, the black-feathered bird looks right back at you. Your gaze shifts down to its elongated beak, shiny with multiple scars and dents on the bone, and in between them is a small plastic bag filled with peanuts. It looked expectant as if it were looking forward to scraps, to swatting, or to just any sort of attention you’d give it. With annoyance, you roll your eyes and hiss at it. The crows always come around this time of the year, looking for families to call upon their murder, to come and feed them so they could create homes inside the ceiling boards—nesting and multiplying, disrupting an established calm.
With a sigh, you return to the living room, and you are drawn to your father. He is sitting comfortably in his favourite chair—the fabric stained with sweat and alcohol, and crumbs have burrowed in between the cushion. He has that far-away look in those tired eyes of his, staring at the bleary screen of the CRT television.
The sound that came out of its speakers broke with each advertisement that played nonstop on it. You always wondered how your father could tolerate the garbled cacophony of words—listening so intently. He hung onto every promise of an improved product, even though it was an identical model with a new paint job and a shiny metallic cover—the same brand over and over again.
A warbled caw erupted in the crook of your father’s neck as it dropped down the same plastic bag filled with peanuts on his lap. A delighted chuckle escaped him as he eagerly picked up the gift, shoving the snack into his mouth, chewing vigorously. Your father had always been the more receptive one towards the crows, and part of you resented him for it.
“Papa. I don’t think you should be eating that.” Your voice was soft as you called out to him, hands awkwardly tucked into your pockets. “You don’t know where the crows are getting them.”
“They’re clean and in plastic bags, anyway.” He chortled, swallowing with a loud sigh as he waved you off.
“You never know if they stole it—”
“Quiet, ‘nak. Go bother your mama instead.”
The television blared once more, screaming over what could have been a productive conversation, a chance to talk about the number of crows that seemed to have filtered in through the windows and nestled into the crooks of his body—they seemed content to have found a nice place to stay in.
The door to your mother’s room was slightly ajar, the soft light streaming through the gap. The scent of her perfume reaches your nose, sampaguita and neroli. You loved that smell, it reminded you of the times spent tucked away in her bed as she told you stories about her childhood, of how she always warded off the crows that threatened to nest in their gutters, of the music that graced their childhood home—her presence brought you some much needed peace from the noise outside. Your feet guided you inside and onto her bed, landing on it with a huff.
“Did you fight with your papa again?” She asked, not looking over her shoulder once. Your mother was used to you entering unannounced, and it amused her—it was endearing.
“Just a friendly conversation, that’s all.”
“Hay, the two of you are opposites. Good thing you got your brains from me.” An amused laugh escaped you, a hand over your mouth to not seem too loud in the joy you found in her words. “And your good looks, too.”
“Mama, Papa might hear you.” You gently warned her, playfully scolding her as you sat upright, your interest piqued as she turned around in her chair.
In her hands was a baby dove—a common one at that, the one you would find in the fields and near the woods. The smile on your mother’s face was mischievous as she held her finger to her lips—another secret to be kept just between the two of you. You approach like a cautious child, tilting your head to the side as you examine the little bird—a far cry from the crows that have found solitude in your father. It cooed softly at you, gently bumping its softened feathers to the tip of your nose.
“This one has been following me around for days, helping eat up the pests that fly over the meat—a bit talkative, but I don’t mind.” Your mother spoke, clearly smitten by this little surprise. Her fingertips gently patting against its small head before she turned to you, a hint of tender worry in the furrow of her brow. “I want you to grow up and out of the noisy crows, the ones that keep bribing your father and make holes in our roofs.”
You nodded. You knew what she meant, she had always looked out for you—past the meals and onto bigger things that loom over your family and your neighbours. There was always that hopefulness in her that your father failed to dampen. The same one that you felt radiating from that little dove comfortably settled in her palms.
“I never liked those peanuts anyway.”
You both laughed, a different type of noise compared to the ones outside your mother’s room—like the twinkling bells and the rustle of leaves against the harsh brokenness of a blown-out speaker.
From there, a dream had started to sprout from the shroud of dejectedness that seemed to surround the broken home, much like the pink flowers that latched themselves onto the windowsill of your mother’s room.
And maybe, in the near future, the crows will no longer knock upon doors, seeking your endorsements.
