On yonder green hill

The experience with my parent’s visit this time, had it not been so heartbreaking, would be Lynchian at best, Keystone cops at worst.
But first, I will begin with a story about a baby in a cradle.
My dad and I were outside watching the birds, communing with nature and such, when a crow flew by. He told me he really hated crows and I asked why. “Well, because of the one I found looking down on you in your cradle when you were a baby.”
How old am I! How many years have I lived this life, thinking something was not quite right, ever.
Is it all because of the harbinger, was it a sign, or just a bird that had flown down the chimney, found the room in which I was sleeping, and sat poised looking at me for who knows how long, until my Father walked in, saw it, opened the window, and shooed it away.
As the memory has faded for my parents, and my sister too young to remember the details, though she does the event, I’m left to wonder, mostly how, something of this weight and magnitude, at least from how I see it, was overlooked.  And then, I think about the last week spent with the star and co- and it is clear.