A worm ate your eyes and a crow ate that worm, and that crow came to my front yard and started croaking. He’s old and fat and arrogant, just like you were in my worst dreams of our old age. But he was dark, as dark as your hair when you died. All morning he kept at it, this rusty whinge. Even the other crows seemed annoyed with him. When I went out to my car he wouldn’t leave his stakeout near the garden gnome. He even flapped his wings at me, as though I was in fact his problem. When I came back, hours later, he was still there, though at the other end of the yard. He didn’t make any noise, but still I tried to chase him away with a broom. I eventually got him onto the sidewalk and hoped he’d take the hint. He didn’t. About an hour later he started crowing again and kept it up the rest of the night. In the morning my lover told me she’d barely slept.
The Last Friend
Tahar Ben Jelloun