What I would never confess,was the intensity with which I loved those black crows.
On hazy autumn afternoons, I’d wander and look for their beaks in wheat fields and skies saturated with specks of sand carried by blonde rays. Their black feathers would camouflage perfectly during the night time, and so I had to rush after school to catch a glimpse of them before dusk.
I had torn the scarecrow down, severed its cotton limbs and stuffed my bed mattress and pillow case with what remained of them. I had ripped off the clothes it wore and handed them down to Sarah and Jen who lived by the garbage bins at the corner of the next street. I congratulated myself on those disguised deeds done to quench my thirst with short-lived shots of dopamine and serotonin.
I spent hours in our dim basement on dark Friday nights fashioning a chair out of logs of teak, crafting a picture of them on its back with perfect delicacy and their names on the front carefully.
And on a Saturday dawn, with sun rays kissing the seat a good-morning through holes in the walls, I had carved my last letter and dusted off of it the dirt.
I carried it on my back to the center of the field and cautiously set it down on a worn-out rug I had stolen from my neighbor’s yard during midnight the other week. He’d go on without it fine, but the chair, no it can’t touch the soil.
Then by its four feet, I left bowls of fresh water that glistened as light played on their surface, and on the seat I placed a nest of auric straw.
Slowly, I stepped back. The wheat had grown tall. Its grains toyed with my hair and caressed my tanned skin. I suppressed a giggle. I had heard a “caw”, but it gradually faded.
It’s been hours. The wheat grains seemed to be swaying more slowly now as I waited.
I stood in that golden heaven, but was too busy waiting for their black majesty.
I had built them a throne, in my mind and in that field.