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“Look at those. They’re huge,” I said to my father.
“They must be ravens,” he replied, as the two large black birds flew off into the interior of the Sunset Crater National Monument. I hadn’t thought too much about ravens up to that point, but now the much-maligned creature hovers over my memories of the trip.
The raven is often seen as a harbinger of bad news, in part because of their black color. Since they feed on carcasses they are associated with death, though depictions vary. Some cultures regard them as godlike, while the ancient Greeks considered the raven a symbol of good luck. The Brits, for their part, have a superstition that if the ravens in the Tower of London ever fly away the monarchy will fall and Britain will crumble.
While related to "pesky crows," as my young nieces call the bird’s smaller cousin, ravens are usually larger, prefer open spaces to urban areas, travel in mated pairs rather than larger groups, produce a low croak instead of a cawing sound and have bigger, broader beaks and wedge-shaped tails.
Ravens are intelligent creatures with an omnivorous and opportunistic diet. In addition to carrion they feed on, among other things, fruit, small animals and food waste.
While taking my first sips of coffee in Sedona, Arizona, the morning after our raven sighting, I happened upon a post from a college acquaintance that eulogized one of my former suitemates.
My mind was taken back to a part of my life it doesn't revisit often, and I had three clear visions of my departed friend: the first in his ridiculous Superman shirt, shouting at a fellow suitemate, most likely about the import of some scene in a Kubrick film, as I sit near them, ostensibly trying to study while enjoying their thespian banter.
In the second he plays a doomed syphilitic man in a play, the name of which I can’t recall. I thought I was witnessing the birth of a star.
The third is of him trying a particularly dangerous hard drug, perhaps for the first time. I remember standing up, not willing to express my disgust, looking around the dark and pungent room at the people lounging, some on the bed, him in a chair, a few more on the floor, jungle – a type of electronic music – blasting. I walk out, close the door behind me, take a few steps and enter my room across the small hall. Hours later the still-pulsating deep bass finally lulls me to sleep.
Later that morning in Sedona as we headed out for the day I told my companions what I’d learned through the vagaries of the Facebook algorithm. My father asked if I knew how my friend died. I said I wasn’t sure but I could speculate.
I feared the world had lost another talented but troubled person to drugs. Later that day our suitemate told me our friend had committed suicide, that he’d seen him a while back and he’d been struggling with depression.
