Of Feather and Craft

Mrs. Maribel watched the loamy soil cushion and consume her husband’s wooden casket as they lowered him; the earth becoming the final blanket of love he’d ever be wrapped in.

Her cheeks were wet, but she wasn’t sad. She dipped her chin to the man she’d given her best and hardest years to, a smile tugging at her lips along with her heart.

“I’ll see you again,” she murmured, letting the wind carry her words to the place he’d know peace for eternity.

She looked to the gray sky—cloudless, washed pale—then the color of ink wobbled across it. A raven had settled on the knobby branch of an ancient oak; the great tree stood like a solemn caretaker over the souls nestled at its roots.

The raven balanced with poise, watching the mourners gather in soft sorrow. Its head tilted and caught Mrs. Maribel’s gaze. The moment held; its small body like a period, ending the run-on sentence she’d spent her life writing with Mr. Maribel.

Her smile peeked at the memory of all those words they’d crafted together. And when the raven lowered its body, readying for flight, she knew it was time to go.

She turned, taking the first steps of her remaining years alone, while the raven flew, gliding beyond the trees.

Days turned to weeks; she felt light and strong, never weak.

She labored in the earth, planting wildflowers along the edge of her log cabin, soon to bloom into multicolored blossoms.

She hummed with the breeze that carried the scent of pine and distant rain. She knew she had to finish planting before the weather slowed her down like her body already had.

Wiping her brow with the back of her hand, she set her small shovel aside for a drink, the golden tea had gone cold.

A rustle whispered through the trees, followed by a whoosh—then a choppy flutter. A shadow swept over her; the figure landing on the large rock nearby.

A bird. A large, black one.

Its sleek feathers bristled as it hopped with irritation. When Mrs. Maribel set her tea down, it retreated to higher ground—a skinny pine that curved at the tip, resembling her spine.

She tilted her head. Its wobble was familiar; the dark eyes watched her exactly as that raven had at the funeral.

“It’s you.”

It croaked, low and throaty.

Bracing a palm against the ground, she pushed herself upright. Dirt streaked her worn pants—smudges of brown, black, and green. She brushed the dirt away and approached slowly.

“You’re beautiful,” she said, then frowned. “But I get the feeling something’s wrong.”

She reached for it; he sidestepped with a sharp caw.

She paused, thinking, then offered her hands instead—cupped patiently.

To her surprise, he leapt.

The sudden flutter made her flinch and laugh, but she caught him, hands cradling his smooth, warm body.

She shuffled her worn sneakers and short legs over to the large rock and sat. The bird settled onto her lap without protest.

She noticed right away that his left wing wasn’t flush. Something was wedged beneath it.

“Now that doesn’t look right,” she muttered.

Slowly, she slid her withered fingers under its wing and lifted. A twig stuck out. She pinched the stick, but the raven recoiled.

She expected him to fly off—but he stayed. Something quiet and pleading hung in his gaze.

“You’ll be alright. We’ll get this nasty thing out,” she assured him with a smile. “If it’s the last thing we do.”

She chuckled at herself. She liked to believe the raven smiled too.

She touched the twig again, softer this time. And—pluck!

The raven’s feathers puffed out; his wings stretched—nearly two feet per side. He shook, then his feathers sighed against his body, his stance proud once more.

She leaned in. “Well done,” she whispered.

His head cocked, its tiny pupil holding her reflection. Then, with a firm brace of his legs, he launched upward—the majestic creature restored.

Her days alone were quiet but never dull. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t wither away without making each day better than the last. Determination, she believed, would keep her mind, body and soul well-oiled.

She wrote poems, tended her garden. But once she’d run out of rhymes, metaphors, and seeds, she knew it was time for a new hobby.

She slipped on her flats, fastened her sweater, and tied her scarf—the silk brushing her skin with nostalgia.

She left her cabin, easing down the cobblestone path that faded into dirt. The old trail was nearly swallowed by vegetation; only two skinny lines of dirt peeked through, guiding her feet.

Thick grass tickled her ankles, wispy wheat drifted, and patches of flowers dotted the field like small bursts of excitement.

The bugs sang—crickets and cicadas like soft claves and shivering violin strings.

The trees swayed—giving the music purpose.

And the wind whispered—turning the air reverent.

But it was the raven soaring above who held the baton, leading the symphony below.

The woman smiled at the bird who accompanied her, its call echoing overhead as she entered the small town.

The shops buzzed with life. Faces passed her—some smiling, some not. Families strolled; workers bustled by. But she kept a steady pace, not stopping for samples—even when the bakery winked—or pausing to window shop. Like the raven, she was focused, keeping to herself as she made her way to the yarn shop.

The bell dinged overhead; the woman at the counter greeted her with a warm smile.

Mrs. Maribel took her time, enjoying the shelves stuffed with neatly bound string and thread of nearly every color. She patted the fluffy ones, stroked the smooth ones, and fiddled with some that shimmered in the light.

The crochet and knitting needles caught her eye next. She found the different thicknesses fascinating, though in truth, she hadn’t a clue what she was doing. Cooking had always been her talent, not crafts. But that didn’t worry her. She picked a book from the shelf that promised to teach her all the basics in just one week.

“That’ll do,” she said with a smile.

She exchanged cash for the soft spools and pointed tools, then made her way to the paint shop next, and a stationery shop after. By the time she’d returned home, the sky had simmered into warm shades of red and orange.

She set the brown paper bags on the creaking floorboards, then entered the kitchen to warm some soup.

She moved around the small space like she could do it in her sleep, her expression soft, like the bread sitting alongside her steaming bowl.

A swish of air cut through the stillness. She turned to see her friend.

She chuckled. “Are you following me?”

The bird only stared, its small motion ticking here and there.

She stepped toward the open window adorned with garlands of dehydrated orange and lemon slices. She picked off a piece of bread and scattered the crumbs at its feet. The bird accepted, leaving nothing behind. Then it nipped at her garland.

“Do you like oranges?” she asked, sipping her soup. “I’m afraid these ones are all dried up.”

Still, the bird fussed with the old fruit.

Her round cheeks lifted into a smile. Setting her bowl down, she indulged the raven’s fit. She tore an orange slice free and offered it. The raven snatched it with its beak and took off.

She watched him glide to a nearby tree and settle into a large nest.

“Ah—looks like we’re neighbors,” she chimed.

The bird pecked at its twiggy nest, then wedged the slice between the sticks. The fading sunlight caught the fruit, casting an amber glow that radiated into the cool evening.

Her empty bowl sat by her feet—her excitement told her to deal with it later. She was nestled in her cushy chair, knitting book open on her lap while her fingers clanked the metal sticks and tangled themselves in yarn.

She laughed. “Look at me,” she said, glancing at the raven outside. “I’m in shambles!”

The bird didn’t answer, but she felt its presence.

Mrs. Maribel straightened her hunched posture, chin lifting above the threads trying to wrangle her. “I’ll get it right—if it’s the last thing I do.”

Over the next few days, Mrs. Maribel knitted night and day. The raven grew so attached he even ventured inside the cabin. She was delighted by the company, proudly showing off the tangled mess she swore was becoming a sweater.

He watched her with quiet concentration, occasionally pecking at the yarn she was certain would be the death of her.

Then one morning—after slowly making her way through her routine— she sat in her chair and froze. The knitting needles were gone.

Her brows pinched. “That’s odd. Could’ve sworn I left them right there.” She rubbed her neck, then shrugged. She was sure it’d come to her after a nourishing breakfast.

But the needles never turned up.

Days passed. Her frustration grew. How could she have lost them? Why couldn’t she remember? Was her mind slipping? She didn’t like that idea.

She’d noticed her hands had grown stiffer without the constant motion of knitting—she didn’t like that idea either.

She decided not to dwell on the missing needles and started a new craft—painting.

Her smile returned, and so did her feathered friend. He watched as she danced around her canvas for hours—muttering, laughing, even poking her tongue out when she focused on tiny details.

Mrs. Maribel pointed at the muddy canvas with a brush dripping yellow. “This is war, and you shall not win.” She glanced at the raven perched on the mantle. “Do you believe I can conquer this beast?”

The bird croaked loudly.

She grinned. “I think so too. Even if it’s the last thing I’ll do.”

The raven swooped down, landing on her easel and pecking fiercely at the canvas. She clutched her side, laughing as the bird joined her battle.

By morning, she awoke energized with a new idea for a beautiful portrait—she’d paint the raven himself.

But when she reached for her supplies, her breath hitched. All of her brushes were gone.

She searched and searched, but not one brush turned up. She stood in the middle of her small space, replaying her actions. She had returned them to the old jar—she remembered washing them carefully at the sink, setting them out to dry. She remembered.

When her thoughts refused to line up, she decided rest was what she needed. Maybe she’d overwhelmed herself. Maybe she simply needed a break. She trudged back to bed, passing the raven in the window without a glance.

“They were there… they were,” she muttered.

She slipped under the sheets, stomach empty, thoughts emptier.

Days went by without painting. She still looked for her brushes, but her energy had reduced. She needed more time to do simple things, she’d even begun making small mistakes—shoes on the wrong feet, faucet left running more than once.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” she assured herself. “I just need to try harder.”

A caw snagged her attention. She lifted her head with a smile. Her loyal friend stood there with something in his beak—a bottle cap.

“Thank you.” She admired its warped metal. “This’ll go nicely with all of my gifts.”

She waddled to a wooden box filled with odds and ends that the bird had been bringing her. As she dropped the cap inside, she let out a breath of relief. Of all the things that had gone missing… she was glad he wasn’t one of them.

One morning, she awoke feeling hopeful.

“Today will not be like the others.” She eased her tired legs out of bed. “I’m strong and capable.”

She remained in her nightgown but tugged a cardigan over it. Her feet were bare, but she didn’t mind; the cold wood beneath them helped her feel alert.

“Good morning,” she said to the bird at her window.

He tilted his head as she sipped some water.

She opened the cupboard and pulled out a crossword puzzle book that had been collecting dust.

Taking her chair, she stared at the book’s cover, then looked at the raven perched beside her.

“Do you think I can?”

He rustled his wings.

Her smile was faint but her mind felt steady.

She opened the book and focused on calming her shaking hand. She stayed there for hours, dozing off and waking only when the bird came and went. But by nightfall, frustration tightened her chest—she’d only done two pages, and parts were left blank.

She clutched the book. “I will get this right. Even if it’s the last thing I do,” she declared.

She stayed in that chair, book in hand, telling herself nothing could go wrong if she didn’t move. But by morning, her hands were empty.

She shook her head at the loss. Why was this happening? Why was her mind slipping so quickly? She quietly sobbed, wishing she could sort it all out—wishing time wasn’t ushering her out the door.

The raven hopped into her lap; her tears fell onto his feathers, rolling down his back like tiny beads of grief.

When the woman finally pried herself from the chair, the raven fluttered free. He swooped out the window and into his nest—now littered with shredded bits of crossword puzzles.

The wildflowers she’d planted bloomed long ago, but their radiance hadn’t reached inside. The air in the cabin had gone cold, and Mrs. Maribel hardly got out of bed.

Some of the townsfolk noticed her absence and paid her a visit.

A man and wife sat with her at the table. They made her a proper meal, one she hadn’t had in weeks.

They returned her tired smile, and before they left, they gifted her a new set of wooden cooking utensils.

The simple gesture lifted her spirit. She used them the best she could. Her movement had dwindled, but she still sprinkled her magic into the kitchen.

That night, she left dried fruit and seeds for the raven on the counter. He pecked at them as she readied herself for bed—no mistakes this time.

The raven not only watched her… he felt her.

He felt the shift. Something in her glowed softly—the same warmth he’d felt months ago when she saved him.

That morning when Mrs. Maribel opened her eyes, she was greeted by three paintbrushes—each weathered and worn.

She blinked, and slowly sat up.

She gathered them gently in her weak hand. Then came a rustle in the hall. The raven swooped into the bedroom with two more brushes clutched in its beak.

She watched in awe as he dropped them into her lap. Before she could speak, he was gone again—off to retrieve the rest from the rooftop.

And slowly, one by one, the raven returned her things—freeing the knitting needles he’d wedged into a tree, even the torn scraps of crossword paper.

“But… why?” she whispered.

The bird settled on her thick blankets, feathers rumpled. She watched him now—how he pecked at his wings, fast and rough, like he was scolding himself.

She frowned. She wasn’t angry, only confused.

She looked at her lap, littered with tattered memories. She thought about how much energy she’d poured into each hobby… how they frustrated and delighted her. How determined she’d been to master them if it was the last thing she’d do.

She realized, then looked at him. “You were trying to protect me… from these silly items. Weren’t you?”

The bird didn’t meet her eyes.

She reached out and stroked his back.

Tears fell, but she smiled. “Thank you for looking out for me.”

The cabin breathed again, but as time carried on, hers began to thin. She resumed her crafts, even if only for minutes at a time.

The raven never left her side. She was grateful for his friendship and as he continued gifting her with the lost treasures of the forest, she did the same— offering food and small knitted bits he’d come to expect. She watched from her chair as he carried her soft creations to his nest, protecting them, loving them.

The man and wife began visiting more often. And as winter strolled in, the wife stayed—caring for the old woman when she no longer could.

She’d been startled by the raven at first, but Mrs. Maribel’s assurance told her he was a friend. Soon, he even brought the lady gifts—little tokens of thanks for tending to the woman he loved.

One evening, the air hung heavy and cold. Not from weather, but from time. The fireplace crackled, filling the cabin with warmth.

The lady was in the kitchen preparing tea.

The raven glided inside, like he’d done countless times—but today, his wings sagged.

Mrs. Maribel stirred in her bed and opened her eyes. She lifted a trembling hand.

He took to it, talons curling delicately around her thin skin. He dropped what he carried.

“Oh—” she breathed, voice lifting. “Thank you for the shoelace.” She chuckled. “I think Mr. Maribel could use it.” Her laugh strained, but her face brightened all the same.

Stillness settled between them. They knew.

The raven bowed his head.

She stroked her gnarled thumb over his silky feathers and managed a smile. “I’m going to keep on loving you—even if it’s the last thing I do,” she whispered.

And it was.

Mrs. Maribel’s face softened, her eyes closed, and her chest stilled.

The raven stayed.

The soft ticking of the clock was the only sound left between them.

When the lady entered the room, he finally took flight—gliding into the night air. He settled in his nest, the moonlight catching on the orange peel, its citrus glow a quiet echo against the raven’s dark chest.