Fuel for thought

Dear Mago,
What grace that your beautiful vessel appeared just when she did. Your timing couldn’t have been better, and with so many and still nobody we know on board!

In my conviction to describe the fuel for your ship, I am reminded of a series of paintings I did many years ago, especially a self-portrait. While the portrait is anything but flattering, its colorful uncanny aura has continued to fascinate me over the years. In fact, I brought it up from the basement just yesterday to reacquaint myself with her. She’s a young redhead, set off against a green background and a house with no smoke stack. There’s a crow with a mossy green breast perched on her left shoulder. The shadow of this feathered friend is cast across my chin - just below my lower lip - as if to make sure my mouth is kept shut. My eyes are steadfast in their look-out, as some distant gulls seem to have sighted prey beneath my brow. What am I thinking? What is it I see? What have I heard? What do I mean? What is it that I am apparently so loath to disclose?

The first reading today was from Leviticus 14, where God tells Moses and Aaron how to cleanse a house of mildew. Several birds are sacrificed to free one that is the subject of prey.

One evening in the fifties while we were living in Tokyo, and you were planning on visiting us soon, father Kreigh announced at the dinner table that he had fallen in love with another woman. His one-liner was loaded, and we all loved it. We knew he was full of surprises and stories for us. He continued to tell us that he was planning on taking mother Anne out to lunch the next day to meet this new love, and that if the meeting went well he would bring her home to meet us all.

Nowhere is the presence of the crow so intimate, so self assertive, so much at home as in Swedish lore. She is more cunning and clever than most birds. While she keeps her beak shut, she continues to cajole with the coquetry of the devil. If she opens it to cackle, the omen is shrill. Perhaps that is why I suddenly became deaf in the ear closest to her beak. Perhaps she wanted me to remain uncertain of what I had heard so as never to repeat it. Now I must begin to tell you, before it is too late. Should your entries stop before I have finished telling you, then I will continue to write to you wherever you are, hopefully better equipped for these reflections.
to be continued...

Your devoted grandaughter