Grief Is a Thing With Feathers is a prose poem from English author Max Porter (b. 1981) about a crow that moves in with a family following the death of their mother and wife. (It would have to be a crow, wouldn’t it?) The crow announces he’s there to stay. He is not, however, nurturing. He’s not “Mom.” (What is mom, anyway?)
I opened my eyes and it was still dark and everything was crackling, rustling. Feathers. There was a rich smell of decay, a sweet furry stink of just-beyond-edible food, and moss, and leather, and yeast. Feathers between my fingers, in my eyes, in my mouth, beneath me a feathery hammock lifting me up a foot above the tiled floor.
And this is what he said: I won’t leave until you don’t need me anymore.
Of course, the crow is like grief. That thing greater than ourselves, that thing that takes over. Grief is the tumbling headfirst into abstraction. Nothing makes sense: time, space, names, and certainly not life.
Certainly not a home without its mother.
Two-bed upstairs flat, spit-level, slight barbed error, snuck in easy through the wall and up the attic bedroom to see those cotton boys silently sleeping, intoxicating hum of innocent children, lint, flack, gack-pack-nack, the whole place was heavy mourning, every surface dead Mum, every crayon, tractor, coat, welly, covered in a film of grief. Down the dead Mum stairs, plinkty plink curled claws whisper, down to Daddy’s recently Mum-and-Dad bedroom.
In the story, the writer-father is writing a book about controversial but highly influential Yorkshire poet Ted Hughes. The father and the sons are unnamed, but the narration moves between their thoughts and the crow’s, and thus we develop a sense of their needs, personalities and individual devastation. 12
There is one line from the crow that sticks with me: “He didn’t see me against the blackness of his trauma.” Indeed, the senses fold, don’t they? It’s a cruel trick of light, grief; even a giant crow in the entryway could seem normal. Touch is quite present, however, constant. We hold on, literally.
Porter’s story is not about finding a substitute because no one lost can be substituted. It’s about a transcending grief’s abstraction, kicking us back to a new, sustainable normal. Crow makes himself at home, invades the boys and Dad’s space, finally finds a reason to leave, Dad regains hope.
We went to a place she loved. I told them in the car on the way that I realised I had been an unusual dad since Mum died. They told me not to worry. I told them that all the nonsense about Crow was over, I was going to get a bit more teaching work and stop thinking about Ted Hughes. They told me not to worry.
The beauty of this prose/poem is a renewed love between the sons. The boys fill the gap where the mom used to be, and together they absorb each other’s pain through small kindnesses.
Grief is so individual, so independent to our own consciousness. And yet, commonalities abound. Sometimes, that makes us feel better, but not always. C.S. Lewis mournfully wondered where the dead go. I explore post-death existence in Do Things Exist Where They Are Buried? Death has more questions than answers—maybe we all need a house-guest crow.
Finally, a wonderful read along those lines is Helen Macdonald’s H Is for Hawk, a stunning story of the precious minutia of owning and training a goshawk, the repeated act of which lifted her from the stupor of grief.