A Broken Crow

i watched them walking by in pairs. a slow shuffle. their sunday best. weathered knuckles and long fingers clasped around the palms that they held out in front of them like flashlights in the dark. my brain flooded with memories. a myriad of obscured, fading snapshots from a time before my mother could no longer reconcile her differences with the catholic faith. my blue dress with the white flowers. my legs swinging impatiently. the run in my stockings. me leaning forward to touch the hymnal, my tiny fingers fanning through thin, glossy pages, edged in gold. counting the spring season church hats, dusty and squashed-looking, smelling of musk and mothballs. they always gave me a palm. i would run out into the parking lot without my coat and let the new april air chill me. i would wave my palm over my head and watch the sky peek cornflower blue through the vibrant, green stalks. i would let the grasses drag on the ground behind me to hear the whisper of dust and gravel. a sound like a scratched throat. after church, i would always hang my palm to dry in my room, the green turning yellow, then brown and crisp. pieces of grass would crumble and gather on the carpet like old skin. my mother would come in days later and throw it away.