By Katie Lipoma
A sickness fell over Father when December fell over the town.
Father used to toss food scraps to the ravens when it got cold. They would flock to their
feast and prod at the frozen landscape. He said ravens were not unlike humans and made sure
that they remained well fed each winter even when food was scarce. A raven, the color of ink,
often watched Father with a queer curiosity long after its food had been devoured. The Raven
visited Father every day that winter, lingering on the bedroom window shutter despite the decline
in nourishment.
The day of the news, the Raven looked especially weak and weathered, its feathers turned
sparse and its beak, a darker black. “He just needs to rest,” the physician declared after Mother
asked what was the matter. His eyes said otherwise, spread wide with a cool grief that had met
death many times.
On my walk home from school the following afternoon draped in a cloak and ankle-deep
in icy white powder, I came across the Raven sat perched atop a sullen branch along the path.
“Dear girl, you are melting the snow with your tears,” he said to me.
Father was paler and weaker than before. It hurt me to see him so ill.
The next afternoon, I traipsed through mounds of white that spilled into my boots. The
Raven looked regal and all-knowing on his perch. “The winter is cruel,” is all he said, beak
turned toward the sky. The clouds agreed and sunk deeper into their charcoal gray.
Father was feverish and stiff with sickness. Still, I had hope.
On the third afternoon, the snow was as high as my waist and the Raven remained.
“Child, he will not get better but the sun will shine again,” the Raven announced with a wise
croak and a flap of its wings, looking even more sparse than the day prior.
Father didn’t reply when I inquired about his condition. His eyes were distant and
unmoving and his breaths, slow and sporadic. I prayed that he would recover and that the clouds
would clear.
The next afternoon birthed a stinging wind and frantic flurries. The branch was bare. The
drapes were drawn. The sky was gray. Winter had won.
Katie Lipoma is from Natick, Massachusetts and studies creative writing and psychology at the University of Maine at Farmington. She’s typically a writer of fiction and poetry, and a reader of everything. She hopes to inspire and impact others through her work. She also enjoys sewing, photography, and flea markets.
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