My mother is sad that I don’t have more memories of her grandfather.

“Don’t you remember that he had a crow?” she asks. “And it would untie your shoelaces?”

I shake my head. I wish I remembered that. Was I upset that the crow kept untying my shoelaces, or did I think it was funny? I guess the crow that that I was funny if it wanted to play with me. I picture the glossy, black feathers and the big beak as shiny as a new record. It cocks its head side to side, watching me, and as soon as I let my guard down, it dives to my feet and pulls the string out of the loop again before making a dramatic escape.

I can picture my great-grandfather’s crow, but I don’t remember it.

I do, however, remember his haunted piano. He’s sitting on the bench smiling while the keys move up and down on their own. His hands rests on his knees while the piano plays its own jaunty tune without his assistance. He watches to see my reaction, and when I stare at the piano in wonder, he slaps his knee and laughs.