A Project for Better Journalism chapter

The Crow and Tales

There was once a crow that would sit on a branch of an old, withered Oak tree outside my bedroom window.

I found it fascinating because it would show up only after it rained.

I never understood why.

One stormy night, I pulled up a chair and watched the mysterious creature. It would just sit there–It’s long, skinny talons wrapped around the frail and feeble branch. As I continued to watch it, a long-ago memory washed over me as if I were outside in the storm myself.

It was the memory of my mother telling me a story about a man who lived in a ramshackled house–similar to the one we live in today. It had stairs that whispered and moaned as if they were trying to speak to you. The walls were like thin sheets of glass– fragile and exposing. The man would always sit outside his house on the oak steps of his front porch, just waiting.

My mother told me the man had a wife, so enchanting and graceful like flowers during Spring. One cloudy day, the wife kissed her husband goodbye before leaving to visit her dying father. Not long after she left, a ruthless stormed swamped the village, and the wife never again returned home.

The man doubted he would ever see his wife again, but deep down unbroken pieces of him remained hopeful. He waited for her every day until he grew old and died inside his old, rickety house.

Some say he died of old age. Others say of a broken heart.

That story reminded me of the crow, because it would always sit on the branch alone looking out into the distance.

As if it were waiting for something

Or someone.

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