A crow paces my patio railing as if he’s anticipating test results while watching me ponder a puzzle piece’s placement. Cocking his glossy head, he steps closer. I offer a blueberry plucked from my yogurt parfait. He shakes his head. Thinking he’s thirsty, I push back my chair and slide open the screen door to fetch him water and me coffee.

When I return, the bird is airborne, gliding to a nearby tree with a silver puzzle piece in his beak.

“Drop it!” I holler, coffee sloshing from my mug. The damn crow’s ebony head peeks from his nest, piercing eyes fixed on me as he nudges the puzzle piece into twigs and pine needles. Grumbling, I try to concentrate on a double-winged puzzle piece, dark blue, almost black, like that thief’s feathers. And about the same size as the melanoma my dermatologist removed, leaving a laceration on my nose. She said I was lucky; we caught it early. And lucky because the other biopsies were benign.

Lucky? Maybe, but it left me looking like Minnie Mouse’s dress, polka-dotted with sores spotting my nose, forehead, ear, chin. And alone on my patio, working on this celestial puzzle, hoping to distract myself from itchy incisions. I rotate the puzzle piece about ninety degrees, recognizing its spot. Almost done!

I’d be celebrating —except one piece is up in that tree, leaving a jagged hole in the moon to taunt me.

Annoyed, I throw a blueberry at the crow, who’s glaring at me from his nest as if I’m the culprit. I scoop up more berries, chuck them at the bird—

Who swoops down, aiming at my face. I cover my head, my sore skin screaming, bracing myself for a direct attack. I hear flapping, feel air stirring, so I squeeze my eyes shut, suck in my breath, freeze. There’s frantic fluttering, shuffling, then silence. Peeking from behind my hands, I spy the crow back in his nest, bobbing his glossy black head, a silver puzzle piece in his beak.

Curses course through me: fuckin’-damn-ingrate-klepto-

But then relief. I touch my face, bandages intact. My heartbeat steadies as I reconsider: the crow as home builder, seeking pretty pieces for his nest, and my scars as good fortune, protecting me from more serious diagnoses.

And my puzzle? Unfinished, yes, but when I turn back to it, a sunbeam shoots shimmering light onto the glass table where the stolen puzzle pieces belong. The puzzle’s incomplete moon space glimmers like a heavenly lantern, filling the puzzle and satisfying me.

Arms scrambling like a cartoon character, I’m shrieking, clawing at air while thumping down the steps from the second floor following the airborne basket of dirty clothes. Soiled socks, T-shirts, and jeans pad my fall, but not enough.

I’m sobbing, crumpled at the stairs’ base. Not from pain; it’s frustration at my aging body. Wiping away tears, I evaluate myself: glutes, right elbow, and right ankle ache.

Wincing, I grip the bottom step, pulling myself to my knees, then lobbing laundry into the basket. My ankle’s swelling, and a bruise darkens my arm. Medical care? Forget it; I’ve been through this before — they’ll just prescribe painkillers, rest, ice, so why bother?

As I attempt a step, my ankle collapses. Sniffing in humiliation, I sink back to my knees, inching toward the kitchen to collect ice packs and a bottle of painkillers. Swallowing two capsules, I’m engulfed by frustration again, though this time no tears. Instead, I want to yell. Or smash a china plate. Or throw a rotten tomato against a tree to watch red juices drip down.

I open my mouth to scream, but just a groan leaks out. So tired—of everything. What’s the goddamn point? Just want to collapse, to deflate like those lawn Santas after Christmas.

I drop down, resting my head on the cool laminate flooring, wallowing in self-pity. Graying hair, declining night vision, shaky hands, stooped posture: Is this who I am now, unraveling bit by bit like a worn sweater?

A ray of sunshine floods through the kitchen window. Still splayed on the floor, my eyes follow the beam’s finger to a blob in the corner. What-the-hell? It’s not dust, too dense. A dead mouse?

Creeping over on all fours, I pause to ponder the thing. It’s a potato! A wrinkly tan potato with reddish-white sprouts protruding from its skin. I poke at it; still fairly firm. Probably could eat it, but, but, but, I realize it’s a sign. A spirit vegetable; shriveled, bumpy, discolored—and tenacious. I’ll propagate it in a pot of soil where it can get some sun, then plant it outside to grow new potatoes.

True, my ankle throbs and I’ll be sore for days, but this wayward potato has inspired me. If it can survive, damn it, so can I.
 

Transform Your Writing Dreams into Reality

PWN Writers & book inc

  PWN Writers is a New Jersey-based nonprofit writing organization dedicated to transforming individuals and communities through writing. Our book inc department guides writers through the entire book-writing journey—from initial concept to final publication. book inc’s Memoir and Novel Incubator programs (beginning January 2026) provide structured support, expert instruction, and a vibrant community of fellow writers who will cheer you across the finish line. Our Book Revision Lab helps you polish your manuscript with targeted feedback and proven revision techniques. Learn more & apply! PWN Writers also offers accessible six-week workshops in memoir, poetry, flash fiction, creative writing, and more—with winter 2026 classes starting at just $225 (early bird rate ends December 22). Whether you're just starting or ready to submit, we meet you where you are. Register now! We believe the arts are essential and offer payment plans and financial assistance to ensure everyone can participate. As a 501(c)(3) nonprofit, your participation supports our community outreach programs. Join our welcoming community and find your people—writers who understand your journey and celebrate every word. Learn more: bookinc.org & pwnwriters.org Email: pwnwriters@projectwritenow.org Transform Your Writing Dreams into Reality PWN Writers & book inc  

Find this and more in ArtsMart