The Crow’s Caw for Forgiveness by Mike McArthur

The Crow’s Caw for Forgiveness by Mike McArthur

Atop a hill, an old man sits on the oddest bench in the world. The bench lies in the middle of a cemetery, and it is only here that the dead can whisper to you. Ask the crows, they know.

The murder of winged beasts stands guard, looking down from an old gnarled tree. They are silent, for they only speak at dusk, and allow the old man’s trespass for now.

He doesn’t pay them attention. Nor does he let the whispers of the dead reach him. Instead, he stares straight ahead at a simple granite slab worn from age but still standing. The piece of rock is unremarkable, but it never is the design of a tombstone that demands our attention.

In simple font, her name is engraved upon the granite. She lies peacefully beneath the ground, and the old man can only hope she found a happiness that he could never provide. The crows judge him, looking down upon the mere mortal who is weighed down by regret. They crane their heads to the side, to better hear the simple truth the dead whisper, “she is gone.”

The old man is so focused on his thoughts that he doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps.

A young man steps besides him, and says, “I guess you didn’t know?”

“I didn’t. I’m sorry I missed the funeral.”

“I’m sure you are.” The young man says, a sneer on his face.

The last time they spoke, the old-man could give piggy backs to his child. Now he can only offer his condolences. It is the first time in years they have spoken.

“Did she suffer?”

The young man closes his eyes and hears the beeps of a dialysis machine against the steady rhythm of a weakening heartbeat. The crows perk up, for they too can hear it too.

“No,” his son responds. “It was quick.”

The merciful lie ruffles the crow’s feathers, but they will allow this trespass for now.

“Do you want to know why I had to leave? Why I couldn’t be there for you?” The old man asks.

“I want to know. Mom was in no condition to answer.”

“To protect you and your mom. I got in with the wrong crowd.” The old man’s face turns hard as he remembers. “Killers and thieves. Jail was the only way out.”

It has been so long since that fateful decision that the old man cannot remember if that is the truth, or just a convenient lie he tells himself. Either way, the consequences of his choices haunt him, for he barely recognizes the young man standing in front of him. He knows by the look in his son’s eyes that his reasons are not enough. He can see the righteous condemnation in those eyes. How could simple words repair a lifetime of neglect?

“She died still loving you,” his son says. The words are harsh, hot against the cold air.

The old man’s hands reach out towards his son. He wants to make amends, but what can he do? He looks up to the crows, for they always know.

“Your mother loved this place.” The old man gets up and cautiously approaches the gnarled tree where the crows roost. “She ever tell you why?”

“The clockwork crows,” his son replies.

A smile creeps up the old man’s face as the wind picks up. The gnarled tree sways back and forth but stands tall. The smell of the dusty earth fills the graveyard.

“She loved the crows, so set in their schedule. We took you here when you were young. Do you remember?”

His son tries to hide it, but a sheepish smile appears upon his face. The old man’s heart aches. At the very least, he can still make his son smile.

“She always wondered why the crows cawed only at dusk. Why they stand guard on this old tree. She tried to lead them out of the graveyard, but they wouldn’t leave.” The old man shakes his head. “She loved them so much your six-year-old brain got an idea.”

When the old man turns to look back, his son’s smile has turned into a grin.

“I thought I’d capture one for her. So I snuck out at dusk, with a net and bait.” The son says and instinctively reaches for the small scar on his hand.

“You snagged one alright. And oh boy, did the crow not appreciate that.”

“At least the crows stuck around.”

“Is that why you called me? You want me to lay roost, like the crows here?” The old man knows that it won’t be easy, but he will do anything to see his son’s smile again. “I’ll stay. If you want me to.”

 The smell of dusty earth takes on a sour odor as the old man waits for an answer. He watches his son struggling to say something.

“Take your time, son. I’m not going anywhere.”

His son chuckles. The crows rustle as the irony is not lost on them either.

The next words his son says pierce the old man’s heart, “I’m dying.”

The old man’s heart quivers, and he sits back down on the bench, the heavy weight of guilt on his shoulders.

“Can I help?” He asks.

His son shakes his head. “It’s the same thing as mom had. I’m going to have surgery tomorrow. Fifty percent chance of survival.”

The old man doesn’t know what to say. A lifetime in jail has ill prepared him for this. He offers a simple truth. “I love you.”

If simple truths could heal all wounds, it would be a better world. The truth doesn’t stop the creeping cancer in his son’s brain, but it begins to mend the wound in his heart.

“Thank you. Maybe we can spend what little time we have, together?”

And for the first time, in a long time, father and son talk.

The two continue talking until the sun dips below the mountains. The crows perk up. Their anointed hour has arrived. They look towards the heavens and as one lift off from the gnarled tree to form a sea of black against the dying light. Madly cawing a cacophony, they chase specters only they can see.

His son looks up at the hundreds of black-winged beasts. The old man doesn’t see a man in front of him anymore. He sees a young child looking up with wonderment and a smile on his face.

“I wanted to see the crows one last time,” his son says. “Just like how I wanted to see you, one last time. I’m happy we met again, Father.”

The two embrace and promise to keep in touch. The old man stays there, watching as the crows fly, chasing after things that are long gone. Later, when his son goes to surgery, the young man will simply nod that he is ready. He won’t say anything because his last words seemed fitting, they seemed right.

The next week, the old man will be here again, watching his only son descend six feet into the ground. The funeral will be small, nobody will talk to him, and he will stay afterwards, sitting on the oddest bench in the world.

When dusk arrives, he will hear his son’s last words, he will swear he can see his son’s soul ascend to the heavens. It will be at this moment that he realizes why the crows caw.

The feeling of guilt will be lifted from his shoulders, for he cannot fly with such a heavy burden. He will shake off his arms, for one cannot catch the currents with such awkward limbs. His lips will extend, his mouth transform, for his yell must pierce the sky and reach the heavens. But his heart will still beat, yearning for his loved ones.

He will spread his black, majestic wings, freeing himself of his human coil. He will join his new brothers and sisters. The crows will show him their ways, because they know.

His wife and son will never truly die, for their names will never be forgotten. When dusk approaches, he will fly as high as he can, take a deep breath and yell their names.

Because the crows caw for forgiveness.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Mike McArthur 2025