Standing at the kitchen window watching the shadows of crows fly over the snow, across the yard, over the shed, beyond the fence, into the trees….I don’t always get my messages. Or turn on my phone. It’s just a thing, over there. They were a month old: the messages left on my birthday. A handful of voices, disappointed, almost upbeat, ever-so-slightly reproachful. My older brother. Two aunts. I formed the replies in my head. Sorry. Sorry, I love you, but…And then I stopped. Because all I really have for them is silence. The words I thought of stuck in my throat, became a sob. I know they know. They should know. They should see themselves. And each other. Talking about me, not to me. Inventing a new me, to comfort themselves. Expecting me to play. The game that erases me. That rewrites me. Sorry isn’t something I ought to say. It’s something I should hear. And then I remember: this is all I ever wanted. Invisibility. Autonomy. Quiet. The delicious adventure of sanctuary. Unseen, behind walls. Moving through this space, where anything is possible, like Pippi Longstocking on the high seas. Telling my friends my secrets. Whispering to the dogs, the ghost of a cat. Raising my eyes to the crows.