The first one arrived just before dusk. Dressed in black and strutting along my neighbor's curb, he was clearly full of himself. Others soon appeared and arguments commenced. It was toward this unruly mob that Edith walked, dragging her garbage down the driveway. She said something to the noisy group but they seemed to ignore her.
Always concerned about her safety, I watched as Edith, nearing eighty, shuffled back to the house, protected from the winter chill by a tattered robe and a fluffy pair of slippers. Since Arnie died, almost twenty years ago, I frequently offered to help her with chores but she was an independent woman and always declined my assistance. Nevertheless, I watched until she was safely indoors before I retreated to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Since my wife is an attorney and usually works late, I have gradually honed my culinary skills.
Having stored her portion in the fridge, I was cleaning the dishes and sipping on my second glass of wine when sirens screamed toward our neighborhood. To my dismay, an ambulance and police car stopped in front of Edith's house, their blue and red lights flashing across the barren trees. My heart was pounding as the medics rushed inside and, five minutes later, emerged with Edith on a gurney and whisked her off to the hospital.
Once again, I felt that I should have intervened earlier in the evening, even though she valued her privacy. By the next morning, we learned that Edith was dead, apparently of a heart attack. I now wonder if that murder of crows was an omen.
