I knew it was auspicious, this message carrier. The crow, ink black, perched proud and aloof on the tree above his grave.
Many of us were gathered below for his funeral for he was a popular man. Too popular, I knew that, had always known that. If I’d looked into the crowd I could have identified them, his women. But I was the one wearing the widow’s weeds, veiled eyes, shutting them out as always, never knowing.
My man, buried six feet deep, his misdemeanors with him. Our love was perfect, would always be perfect, no one, nothing could come between us, ever. I’d held on, the dark secret hidden, not known, and here it was to fly free. He would never know what I knew, or if he knew what I’d known, he’d never said. I’d held on to that.
As I threw the first clods onto his coffin the crow flew, lifted away with all that weight of woe. He was my man, always mine.
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