Attached to Some Ducks.

Where the fuck are my ducks?

Through the stillness of winter mornings, I passed a shallow pond where twenty or so ducks moved slowly across the water,

unbothered,

as if time had forgotten them.

They felt like a silence held too long,

a moment too tender to break.

Waiting for something,

or maybe nothing at all.

It became a ritual I hadn’t meant to keep.

A gentle rhythm.

A soft promise the world kept without asking.

...

I bid them hello, every day.

Out loud.

I probably scared them.

I definitely loved them.

I called them my duckies.

I’ve never had pets, but for a while, those ducks felt like mine.

Some mornings, I left early to watch them a little longer,

standing there like a lovesick fool,

watching them glide like they had all the time in the world.

And yes, I considered taking one home.

More than once.

...

One morning, without ceremony, they were gone.

I stood there, blinking at the water,

half convinced I’d overlooked them somehow.

But the pond was still.

Empty.

It shouldn’t have unsettled me the way it did.

But I felt the shape of what wasn't there.

...

They stayed through the coldest mornings,

the kind of cold that bites your fingertips before you've crossed the street,

the kind that makes your eyes sting just from meeting the air.

Even then, they never missed a day.

I started counting on it.

I never thought of ducks as Winter's creatures.

But they made it through the cold, and left with the thaw.

I suppose I thought they’d stay,

naïvely maybe.

As if surviving the worst had earned us something more permanent.

But maybe even resilience disappears when the sun comes out.

Now, the pond is still.

My ducks—pure ripples in my memory.

Maybe they migrated.

Maybe they’ll be back.

Maybe this is just how seasons work.

Still, it’s hard not to feel a little abandoned.

They could’ve at least given me a quack of notice.

...

There’s probably a lesson in here somewhere,

something about letting go, or loving gently,

or how the quiet things you grow used to are the ones that undo you completely.

But I don’t want a lesson.

I just want my ducks back.

I just want my ducks back.

...

Still, I look for them.

Every morning.

Just in case.

Hope can be that simple, I think.

A glance toward a pond.

A soft spot in the day.

And the memory of something that made you smile.

For what it’s worth,

Charlene Iris

One thought at a time.

One truth at a time. 

Because some epiphanies stay with you.