#actastrology55

I remember my mother talking about magpies. “One for sorrow, two for joy. Three for a girl, four for a boy.” She’d recite, and if she saw only one bird she’d cross her blue eyes so that her vision doubled and she’d call out, “Joy!”, and we all laughed at her childish face and at her superstition. Callie in particular was cynical about such things, even as a child. She snorted when mother spoke of astrology and the Zodiac.

“How could that be even remotely true?” she’d say, not maliciously, but stubbornly. “It makes no sense.”

“Typical Capricorn,” was our mother’s response.

Myself? I’m conflicted. I’ve always wanted nothing more than to be loyal to Callie’s beliefs, but I find it easy to have something to define people by. They certainly work for our family, as if the stars were made just for us.

Callie, the Capricorn, ambitious but stubborn.

Flaxe, the Virgo, reliable but worrisome.

Hattie, the Sagittarius, optimistic but careless.

And me, the Aquarius, creative but apathetic.

It almost makes me believe the signs. I think I do believe the signs. But there is only one magpie. I frown, staring at the thing. It’s out of place in such an industrial town. As out of place as pink pointe shoes on cobbled streets.

I lunge at it.

The bird is fast, but I am faster. Faster than the smoke dissipating from factory chimneys, faster than rain smashing on slate roofs. In an instant, my hands are cupped around the soft pied feathers of the magpie.

One for sorrow.

I wait patiently, wait for another bird to join its companion. I wait for joy. I wait for joy. I hold the bird gently in my hands and wait for joy.

It does not come.