“One for Sorrow” is a nursery rhyme about crows. According to superstition, the number of  crows seen tells if one will have bad or good luck.

Crows have long been associated with death, graveyards, and spirits in Western culture. A group of them is called a murder or a horde. They are extremely intelligent, with the same brain-to-body ratio as humans. They can learn and understand hundreds of words. They’ve been known to use makeshift tools – a skill only seen in a handful of animals. They’re also intensely curious.

I was five years old when Grandma counted crows for me for the first time. I was about to begin my first year of school. I already knew how to count to 30 –something I was damn proud of at the time– so when she brought me to the window and pointed at the black birds outside, I thought she was making fun of me when she asked, “How many crows are there?” 

“Seven?”

“Yes, but do you know how to count them?”

After that day, every time I went to Grandma’s, we’d sit on a rock outside, surrounded by trees and nuts and squirrels and impossibly green grass. If there were crows, we’d count; if not, we’d talk. Everything felt like a fairy tale.

My mom, on the other hand, thought we were being creepy. “Why would you teach her that?” she asked Grandma. Mom told us not to count anymore, so we made it our little secret. Grandma and I would count the crows together and make silly predictions about what was to come.

Usually, Mom wasn’t around to bother us. But, if she was, and we saw crows, we had a secret code: lean in and whisper, “Can you keep a secret?”

I stopped counting crows in middle school. I suddenly had other things to occupy my time. I was showing the first symptoms of untreated ADHD. I was no longer surrounded by trees and squirrels and crows; that stuff wasn’t cool anymore. I was surrounded by dark clothes, hair dye, and people who thought those “niche memes” on Pinterest were cool.

I spent so much time trying to relate to my peers that I just forgot about crows. That’s not to say I didn’t like crows. I’ve always identified with them in a weird way: attracted to shiny objects, curious, associated with graveyards. What I forgot was their significance.

Grandma and I grew apart as I got older. That’s to be expected, really, but I never noticed. By then, I’d told a bunch of people about how I used to count crows. What had once been a beloved secret was now information that I traded like Pokémon cards. Could I keep a secret I’d forgotten about it? If I was going to forget, did I deserve to even know?

Was it even a secret anymore?

My family claims Death is afraid of Grandma. After all, she’s a woman who’s too angry to be bothered to lose mobility. Maybe that’s why she’s so fascinated by crows. I used to think she controlled the crows because every time we sat outside, they seemed to appear.

She’s getting older and showing it. In 2017, she suddenly lost sight in her left eye. Last year she seriously injured her hip when she visited me at UW-Eau Claire, and it’s still giving her trouble. Yet she’s keeps trucking along. I think the only thing that could stop her is her mind.

Grandma’s always been neurotic. She’s the arrive-four-hours-early-for-a-flight-and-ask-the-gate-employees-when-departure-is-every-10-minutes kind of person. She’s always been zone-in-on-the-tiniest-and-most-unnecessary-details kind of person. She’s always been the holds-grudges-for-way-to-long kind of person. As she’s gotten older, these have gotten worse. Still, if there’s one thing her old mind hasn’t forgotten – and likely never will – it’s crows.

Before I left for college, my family got together for a small party at my grandparents. Because of the bad weather, we eat inside. After I am bombarded with questions (and thinly veiled complaints) about college and my degree and my plans, I am thoroughly sick of that house and everyone in it. I dip outside for some air.

I lean on the porch, gaze into the stillness of the afternoon mist, and reminisce. I’ve done so much on this porch – in this neighborhood. Grandma comes out and puts a hand on the railing next to me.
“Do you still remember how to count?”

I follow her gaze. Five black birds stand on top of the hill, so mysterious in the after-storm-mist. I haven’t thought about counting crows in years.

“Well,” I begin. A smile slowly spreads across my face, “Can you keep a secret?”

She points her bony finger towards the hill.

“One for sorrow, two for mirth.”

I join in, suddenly overcome with nostalgia.

“Three for a wedding, four for a birth.”

As if on cue, two more crows fly from the tree above to join the horde. Grandma puts her hand on my shoulder.

“Five for silver…”

I hope we can count one more time.

“Six for gold.”

I love her so much.

“Seven for a secret, never to be told.”

Requel Anglemyer is a sophomore at UW-Eau Claire who works for the university writing center. She is originally from Rio, Wisconsin, and this is her first published writing.