text: The night before my father's funeral, I dreamt I was a crow. I soared above my childhood home, above the old elementary school, above the lake where my father had taken me fishing when I was five years old and had yet to disappoint him. My black feathers were iridescent, shimmering as I flapped my wings. I flew farther, out of the state of Minnesota, out of the United States, and into outer space. For a split second, I was filled with joy. Then I awoke. Annoyed, I pulled off the quilt my mom likely hadn't washed since I moved out ten years ago. She hadn't changed much of anything since I left, really. My basketball trophies were still standing on the shelf above my desk. My now-ancient iMac sat below. On the walls were posters of Fall Out Boy and fellow female athletes whom I'd found inspirational: Mia Hamm, Serena Williams, and Nadia Comaneci. The Comaneci poster sported a tear down the center, courtesy of my father. He ripped it in one of his drunken rages, calling it "fuel" for my "filthy lesbian fantasies." Ironically, Nadia was the only woman of the three I wasn't attracted to. The only real difference in my bedroom, in fact, was the black silk dress that hung from my doorframe, swaying threateningly. "Mom!" I shouted, "What the hell is this?" My mom appeared in a fuzzy pink bathrobe, dragging a comb through the curly brown hair we shared. She peered at the black dress and rolled her eyes. "What do you think? It's a dress, Cass." "I'm aware. I meant what the hell is it doing in my room? I haven't worn a dress in twenty years." Twenty-one years, in fact. I was the flower girl at my uncle Mike's wedding. When my mom presented me with the purple tulle monstrosity I was meant to wear, I cried for nearly an hour. On the day of the wedding, I angrily dumped the entire basket of flowers at the head of the aisle and ran out of the chapel in an act of protest. After the reception, my father had gotten drunk off his ass, as always, and as always, my mom had to drive us home. I leaned my head against the car door and closed my eyes. When my father thought I’d fallen asleep, he turned to my mom. “Jeanette,” he slurred, “there’s somethin’ wrong with Cassandra. She’s a weird kid, I’m tellin’ you. I jus don’t understand her.” I was snapped back to reality by my mother’s voice. “Your dad would’ve wanted you to wear it, Cassandra.” “He wanted a lot of things, Mom. Wanted to win the lottery. Wanted to quit drinking. Wanted me to be someone else. You can’t always get what you want.” I shot my mom a wry smile, knowing the Rolling Stones quote would bother her. “Whatever, Cass. Wear what you want. I’m leaving in half an hour to set things up. The service starts at one. Please don’t be late.” With that, my mom left my room and I started downstairs to start a pot of coffee. I passed a seemingly endless row of photos, most of which were of me. Me at my very first Junior Timberwolves basketball game, which my father had missed because his “damn car wouldn’t start.” Me grinning at my eighth grade graduation, which my father had missed due to “a faulty engine.” One photo in particular stood out. It was a newspaper clipping, in which I was leaping through the air in a sky blue jersey, basketball in hand, wild-eyed. The caption read, “West Lake High School player Cassandra Lowell makes the game-winning shot, taking home state championship.” I remembered the game well. It was the second semester of my sophomore year, and I’d already earned the attention of numerous college scouts after leading my team to state championships. The game was set to be played in Minneapolis on a Saturday morning, and I’d somehow gotten my father to promise he’d be there. As the team and I rode to Minneapolis at the crack of dawn, I found myself filled with excitement. *I have to win this game*, I thought. I had to make my father proud. The game began and I played better than ever before. I made shot after shot, and no one seemed able to stop me. By halftime, the score was 32-14. I turned into the crowd, expecting to see my parents’ smiling faces. However, only my mom smiled back at me, a grin that did not match her troubled eyes. Next to her was an empty seat. I deluded myself into thinking maybe my father had left to use the bathroom, or he was running a bit late. I pushed on, determined to show my father how good I was. Toward the end of the fourth quarter, the other team picked up their game. Before we knew it, they had a two-point lead, and there were only fifteen seconds left. As if by magic, I managed to steal the ball from a girl on the opposing team and run. Desperate to make a shot in time, I leapt into the air from halfway across the court and launched the ball toward the net. I had a look in my eyes the local newspaper would later describe as “a girl possessed.” *Swoosh*. The ball made it in easily. I almost couldn’t believe my good fortune. As the buzzer rang, I again turned into the crowd, hoping to share this victory with my father. Again, all I saw was an empty seat. I refrained from celebrating on the bus ride home, sulking while everyone else celebrated. My sulking turned to anger, which turned to seething. By the time I arrived home and spotted my father’s ’99 Civic in the driveway, I was beyond furious. I entered our house, slamming the door behind me. My father laid on the couch, beer in hand, indifferent to my arrival. I dropped my duffel bag in front of him. “You missed my game,” I said. My father seemed unbothered. “You guys win?” I ignored his question. “You missed my game,” I repeated. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Car wouldn’t start.” “That’s bullshit! That’s bullshit and you know it. You own one of the most dependable cars on the planet. You were just too fucking drunk to drive to one lousy game.” My father was many things: a homophobe, a drunk, an all-around asshole. But at the very least, he was not a drunk driver. My father shook his head, somehow managing to spill his beer in the process. “The damn car wouldn’t start, Cassandra. It’s a shitty car. Never works. Believe me.” The memory was interrupted by my mom brushing past me on the staircase. “I know you’re a zombie without your coffee, Cass,” she said, “but if you don’t get a move on it, you’re gonna be late.” “Sorry, Mom,” I said, and continued on with my routine. I made the pot of coffee, poured some cereal, and sat down on the couch to watch shitty morning TV. For a moment, it felt as though I’d never left home. Then, my mom walked out the door wearing her black funeral dress and I remembered everything. The rest of my morning continued without a hitch. I showered, brushed my teeth, and styled my hair. I pulled my black slacks and gray dress shirt out of the suitcase I’d lugged here, ironed them, and got dressed. Although I wasn’t very hungry, I shoveled the lasagna our neighbor had brought as an offering of condolence into my mouth. With nothing left to do but travel to the church, I grabbed the car keys off the kitchen counter and headed out the door. The Civic sat in the driveway, looking exactly the same as it had over a decade ago. I paused for a minute; suddenly, I felt as though I were seven years old. I reluctantly opened the door and sat down. I put the keys in the ignition and attempted to start the car, but received only a pathetic cough in response. Irritated, I tried again. Nothing. *You’ve got to be kidding me*, I thought as I tried the ignition yet again. The engine sputtered defiantly. Exasperated, I turned my head toward the sky. “You cruel bastard,” I said, half-laughing, half-crying. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a jet-black crow rising through the air.