If the story ends today, it is Saturday. It’s not a happy ending, or a tragic one. I’m sitting on the porch of the house that isn’t mine in the snow that blew in last night, looking up at three crows in bare branches. In an early morning yoga class yesterday, the teacher said that the Chinese characters for “busy” also mean “heart-killing.”
And just like that, two of the crows are gone from the tree. I see one of them flying away. The one still perched up there just cawed, as if to ask the others, where have you gone?
If I’m sitting alone quietly, am I taking care of my heart? Where have I gone? Where have you gone?
The girls are both at friends’ houses. Greg is home, with Bobo, in the house where my clothes no longer hang in the closets, my dresser drawers empty. My throat burns and my eyes are dry now.
It is my busy mind that kills my heart. Only when I quiet my mind can I take care of my life. Only then.
Caw, caw, caw.
When will that last crow fly home?