THE RAVEN FEATHER

The black feather fell. It fell from the sky to land where I could not miss it, black, in the middle of the cement driveway, in the middle of a concrete ribbon, halfway between the house and the street. There it lay, a solitary silhouette against the grey-white surface: a single, long, black, tattered shaft.

I’d never found a raven feather on my property before. What did it mean?

Garrison once said to me, “Ravens are special. My totem animals. Whenever they appear, I pay attention. It’s a sign that something important is going to happen.”

For one week and three days he’d been gone from my life. “Give me a couple of days,” he said, kissing me softly, stepping up and settling into the drivers seat of his truck. “I’ll call you.”

For one week and three days the phone sat perched on the nightstand, a silent sentinel. As a vulture might eye the almost dead, so had I paced the floor in-waiting “a couple of days,” and “a couple of days” more.

He was always so proud about keeping his word, about being on time. It’s out of character for him not to have called. But do I really know him after only two months?

All morning I stared at the feather lying on the table. It marked an open page in my journal, a page that waited to receive an entry—his call. The black color and ragged edges stood in dramatic relief against the ivory paper.

He believed in signs, in a telepathic connection between people because of their love for each other. Was the feather from him? Was this the connection he’d spoken of? Or was it a sign from the ravens that meant something else, something gone wrong? An accident? Was he hurt? Dead?

I wanted to hear his voice, to hear reassuring words that he had arrived safely. Especially words that conveyed how much he missed me. I wrote:

A raven dropped a feather. Is it from you? Call me and tell me what it means. Call me and tell me how you are and what you’re thinking. I miss you.

Our relationship had been brief. I knew when we met that soon he would be leaving. Garrison had been honest about his job. Traveling around the country, working construction jobs at various fairs, that was the life he loved. Yet, while we were together, I put it out of my mind. He treated me as if I was truly someone extraordinary who had come into his life. I fell in love so quickly. He was charming. Musk perfume lingered in the folds of his clothing. Intoxicating. An intelligent man. A natural-born designer and fabricator. He was exciting. Desireable. For over seven weeks I’d been his companion in work and play, sharing his life as friend and lover. He filled empty places in my heart that I didn’t even know were there. The look in those black soleful eyes, framed by his windblown, straight black hair, spoke to me. His eyes told me how special I was to him.

Oh, why hasn’t he called? Stop thinking about it. The raven dropped a feather. Pay attention!

Then, I remembered something else he had admired. His grandfather instructed him in learning this skill. “I’m not afraid,” he said, “of anything. Whenever I would get scared as a child, Grandfather would create a situation where I’d have to face my fear. Then he’d go off and leave me there, until I wasn’t afraid anymore.”

Was I afraid? Of what? Worried, perhaps, but surely not afraid. I crossed the room, picked up the feather, and walked to my desk to put it away in a drawer. I didn’t want to look at it anymore. I pulled the drawer open. Too hard. It fell spilling its contents on the floor. I sat down and started to cry. For there, nestled among the pencils and papers lay mementos of Garrison. Pictures of him, of the two of us fanned out across the rug. A bracelet he made, his pen, a treasured stone were all scattered about. A decoration from the hat he always wore was pinned to a blue ribbon, my favorite color. These things had been carefully placed in the drawer, left behind, just waiting for me to find them.

“Surprise! I love you. I’m thinking of you.” Tokens of his affection. Memories for my scrapbook. Nothing made sense. I wished he would call. I sat, crying, clutching the long, black, ragged feather.

Another week passed. Every day I became more concerned. I looked in the drawer often. Fingered its treasures. When I could stand the waiting no longer, I picked up the phone, dialed “OO” information, US Directory, to get the phone number of some friends who might know where he was staying. Finally, I located a name I recognized, someone I’d met when I was with him.

“Would you like to be connected for an additional charge?” the operator asked.

“Yes,” I answered. I left a message with his friend.

The next day, I found a message blinking on my telephone answering machine.

Hi! It’s Garrison. I guess you’re not home. I’ve been working here and having lots of fun setting up the new fair. I thought I’d call and talk to you, but you’re not there. I’ll try again tomorrow night about ten o’clock your time, or maybe eleven o’clock. Okay? Talk to you then. Bye.

That was four days ago. He didn’t call at ten. He didn’t call at eleven. At last I understood.

Ravens are special animals; his totem birds. They do appear as a sign. Not as a sign from him, but rather as a warning to “pay attention.” Something important is going to happen.

The raven feather that fell and landed in the middle of my driveway, in a place where I could not miss it, had nothing to do with him. Yes, it was a message. But not from Garrison. The raven dropped the feather for me.