A Duck

stayed the weekend at a much-loved farmhouse inn with my family. horses, chickens, a large garden, a jungle gym, and a small pond with four resident ducks. every day, the ducks were let out of their barn and waddled their way to the pond, where they would spend their day, swimming, bathing, nibbling the grass, steering clear of us and our young ones. at the end of the day, a person would come and walk them to the barn, they all waddling quickly in a line behind her, into their barn.

this morning, i sat on the porch with my mom, drinking coffee, enjoying the lovely clouds and breeze together. as we talked, i watched as the foursome appeared from their barn and made their way to the water. later on, as we prepared to go, we learned that one of them had been struck by a car and killed. i went over to it with my sister and our little ones, and i stroked its still body as we sang it a song together. i told the other ducks that i was sorry for them, and one of them quacked and quacked, the long ones they do when they're fussing about something, and we all said it was grieving.

everything is so fragile. days come and days go and things seem to stay the same, and yet each of these days is a gift. the friend we make behind the counter at the post office, the children our little ones play with, our sisters and brothers, our parents, our dogs. all of us are walking a precious life together, so dependent on so much, on so many moments. i see myself wanting to smooth all of this over, to push away this lesson and return to the comforting numbness, return to taking it all for granted. how do we hold these lessons we are offered? how do we make these changes, let go of the habits we are ready to lose, incorporate new, more vivid understandings into our choices?