I was walking down the street when I came across the crow. She looked at me, very intensely. Though she scared me initially, I could not move away. Our eyes locked, in fact. Then she looked away and I realised I had totally frozen. Should I run? Blurs out of Hitchcock’s movie floated into my head. No, let’s not run. The crow had not flown away either. She was still there. Maybe she was trying to tell me something.
I looked around me, at passers-by in the street. It was a warm sunny day and people were smiling. Looking around me brought me back into the now, away from where the crow had wanted to take me.
She was there, right there, in this summer-lit street. She was still there. I looked more closely. Her feathers had this beautiful, shiny blue glance. Her head tipped up as if inviting me to share my thoughts with her. I took up the invitation and asked her whether she was sending me a message from my father.
Had he seen crows in the camp? Would he still have experienced the beauty of birds or the warmth of the sun? It had always surprised me how war victims still experienced simple emotions of positive being. People still danced in war time. People still made love. People continued to tell their children bed time stories.
Did dad still experience positive warm feelings during his camp days? Did it change after he had witnessed his mum and siblings be put on the train to The East?
I imagined him there in the camp, looking at the horizon, feeling the sun, watching birds in the sky. He must have still felt the connection with those who were not there with him anymore. Like I do with him right now, with the crow who was still smiling at me.
Or was I imagining it?