This stone house is a rippling memory, a sometimes dream sometimes seizing chill. It sits dilapidated, mutated from the old roots, a failed attempt to modernize mud and stone, this home now hallow hole. I remember a street lamp, a tendril of swinging cable, abandoned webbing of an electric spider. A top there, Crow took to roosting. Even before the Stone Home, Crow was constant. She flew above my little pick-up truck, riding the simmering wind.
It was when I was a child, when I first encountered this spirit, the wind. In my grand mother’s backyard, he proved himself the be living, breathing though the trees. And that night, he whispered to me through the crack in the window, insistent under Micheal’s chatter. My coworker sitting shot gun misted whiskey through the cabin. He was older then I, but had neither a vehicle nor the sobriety of mind to drive one. My window was cracked to release the pressure. The wind was my comfort, a new breath.
And Crow? She was there, in and out, a shadow lilting through my headlights. Together, she and I rode to take Micheal home. He had gotten off early at 6, had stolen off to the Class Act and stumbled back to guilt a ride. He gave me ten dollars for gas, and I was young, desperate to be useful, to lend a helping hand. To be like my father. A man of compassion and understanding who helped the nameless. But my father had forbade me, warned me of those nameless men and pretty little girls, of dark highways and unmarked graves. Micheal was my middle ground.