The Crow

Everything about her is white, that's the thing that stands out. Her hair hangs all round her in a cloud. Her skin, that hair, bits of white in the corners of her mouth, even her eyes are milky. All of it is white, and odd.

She just stands there staring at the traffic. Her lips move constantly, whispering to herself. Talking to herself, or remembering. Like going over a shopping list or something.

She's always there, everyday. Monday to Friday, there she'll be, alright. She's dependable like that. But no-one's got a clue in heaven why she does it. Why? Why there? What's she looking at? What's she looking for?

Those eyes streaming in the cold. Blank and old, looking right through people. Just standing there in that grubby coat. Like some girl waiting for her sweetheart to come home from war, she's been waiting on that corner there for forty odd years and no-ones got the heart to tell her;

"Look love, forget it, he's gone. You should go on home. We're sorry." They don't know how to say;
"Listen; you're no sweetheart now, you're an old crow and you'll catch your death out here."

People don't know how to do that sort of thing these days. They prefer to stand apart. Not safe anymore is it? Look at them now. They don't like to get too close, they can see she's not quite right. A bit fierce, she looks. Makes people nervous that does. But she's not that kind of crazy. She's not.

She's seen it all. The 7.45. Pale office lads shipped out to that business park. And the 15:22. Young mothers in those leggings they're all wearing, wheeling and bumping their prams. Then the 19:50 and those kids, smoking and leaning up against each other, phones blaring. She never even bats an eyelid. It'd be easy to think she doesn't take it in, like it all goes over her head, but it doesn't, you can see that, alright.

People do like the sound of their own advice, don't they? Like those two women on the bus: “Tis a shame innit, they should probably put her in a home or something.” The other one says “mmm, yeah, I mean, it's cold out there.”

Hang on. Maybe she doesn't mind the cold. Maybe she's hardened to it. Maybe she actually likes it. What would they say to that? And what if she doesn't want to go into a home? They haven't thought about that, have they? She might not even need a home. She probably lives in a scruffy old house with grey nets in the windows and fifty-odd cats. She looks the type.

Some people tell their kids she's a ghost, tell them to behave and get to bed, or else. That old woman will come in the night and get you. That old white woman, they say. Like she goes stalking the alleys in the dark. Cock and bull. But that's what they say.

There is something of the ghost about her. But she's real, all right. She's different though, cut of a different cloth. It's sort of like she's here but not here, y'know?
And then, one day, just like any other; bus stop's packed out, traffic's blaring, but she was gone.