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Of Ducks and Men



"Just let them pass."

"What?"

"They're running. Just let them go around us, because we're slow." I step to the side and tug at Aubreigh's shirt for her to come with me. We've done the entire path, including the part closed for repair, checked both bathrooms and two water fountains, the swings—down and back, and wiped a few benches dry with our shorts….the way back is always the slowest….she lags steps behind, me prodding, stopping, turning, walking backward—half encouraging—half begging. On our way "down" or "out"—or "away from the car," she ran yards ahead, blonde head pitched back, curls bouncing, giggles erupting, scaring ducks, causing incoming foot traffic to swerve to avoid her. Now she's slow, and I'm hungry, and we are so close—but yes, still, so far away.



"That's an ugly duck." I lean against the wooden guardrail separating the path from the road—almost in the shadow of the train trestle. A train passed earlier today, when we were in the library. I reflected on the irony. Books, reading, trains, whistles….

"Which one? The gray one?"

"Yeah…it looks more like a chicken or something…that red head…." I wonder where it came from. Excuse that preposition…I'm telling you what I thought, and I didn't think, I wonder from where it came. I don't think like that.

They pass, jogging like it's natural, smiling, chatting, baby sleeping. She reflects that now Valerie rather than Monica is pushing the stroller. I'm reflecting on how, even with a sleeping baby, they're so much quicker that we are. "We had to check out the bathrooms." We all giggle, because they have girls too, and I don't need to explain any more for them to understand.

We continue toward the trestle. She's chatting away, toes out, toes in….I'm staring at the ugly duck. I can't see that far without my glasses—not enough to make out faces or words—so I'm not sure what I'm seeing. I squint and move into the left –hand lane….then closer to the steep bank. The girls are gone now—too far to call out. I don't want to say anything until I'm sure, but I'm not sure what I can do even once the words are forming, "Is that….blood?"

"What?"

The duck is not gray. He, or she, I'm not sure how to tell with white ducks, is bleeding. Blood on the head, the neck; its wings seem to flutter, to vibrate, to pulse at its sides. A male mallard sits a foot away at its right. "Oh my gosh; that's blood."

"It's beeding? Mommy, is that duck beeding?"

"I thought only we did that to each other. Humans, I mean."

I see him in my peripheral vision, but I don't respond. Not right away. I look at Aubreigh, who's looking at the duck, and turn to face him.

"They attack that white duck. I've seen them do it several time. They attack it. Just peck at it. I didn't know that animals did that to each other. I thought that just humans did that."
He smiles at me: two front teeth and dark spaces through a wide sideways smile. Dark brown eyes shining with kindness, and I'm not sure, but maybe sadness too. My heart squeezes—a homesick feeling, and I don't know if I can speak. I rub Aubreigh's back through her curls.

"They did that to him? Why?" My tone is more desperate than he deserves—as if he could possibly know the answer—as if there could be an answer.

"I don't know. I've seen it happen before though. It's so sad. They peck him to death. Someone said they might be mating, but I don't think mating is supposed to be like that—not like that."

 I nod.

"I wonder if they haven't learned it from us, the animals, I mean." I squint into the sun to see him. He nods and turns, but we three are suspended there. 

"I went through stuff like that too—I know how he feels. I used to get pecked at too—for being different." His head tilts to the side a bit; his ears are backlit by the sun. "I mean, not recently, but when I was a teenager, 'cause I'm different from other people." I feel the heat behind my eyes and the ache in my heart…this story is too familiar. I've heard so many versions, so many times, too many ducks, too many broken boys and girls, too much distress, too much hate….

"Oh no. I'm so sorry. That doesn't make it right…you shouldn't have gone through that. They shouldn't have done that to you…." I look at him, illuminated bristles on his cheeks. Aubreigh's head tilts and she stares up at him. I look from him, to the duck, and back.
"It's okay. That was a long time ago. But I do feel sorry for him, because I know how he feels. Those people who picked on me back then—they're some of my best friends now…" His grin hangs in the air, and the squeeze releases enough for me to breathe in the moment.

"Well, I hope that they learned their lesson….I hope they know that they were wrong. Have a good evening, okay?"

"You too, ladies." He turns into the sun, arms straight at his sides swinging slightly with his stride.

I look at Aubreigh. I stare at this beautiful, glowing, golden child, and the duck, bleeding and throbbing on the spit in the middle of the creek. Its aggressor still by its side.
"Mommy, can we do something? Can we call who owns the Greenway? Is there an ambulance for animals?"

"I don't know…I guess we could call the town…I don't know…the wildlife center is in Waynesboro…I don't know if they would come this far. I don't know." 

The bullies are now some of his best friends…years later, through forgiveness, healing, growth. But it never should have happened….He shouldn't know how that duck feels….And what about the duck? What about the ducks who never survive that long?



Copyright © 2013. Carrie Ellen Campbell. All Rights Reserved. http://carriellencampbell.blogspot.com. Please respect Carrie's intellectual property. Sharing blog posts is permitted, but no part of this material may be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Contact Carrie at: carrieellencampbell@icloud.com.


Copyright © 2012-13 · All Rights Reserved · ilovemyburg.com. Written content by Katie Mitchell. Photos by Brandy Somers. This material may not be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Thank you for respecting our intellectual property. - See more at: http://www.ilovemyburg.com/2013/06/14/a-working-glass-man-zn-stained-glass/?fb_source=pubv1#sthash.KHolNram.2g2nTeVN.dpuf
Copyright © 2012-13 · All Rights Reserved · ilovemyburg.com. Written content by Katie Mitchell. Photos by Brandy Somers. This material may not be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Thank you for respecting our intellectual property. - See more at: http://www.ilovemyburg.com/2013/06/14/a-working-glass-man-zn-stained-glass/?fb_source=pubv1#sthash.KHolNram.2g2nTeVN.dpuf
Copyright © 2012-13 · All Rights Reserved · ilovemyburg.com. Written content by Katie Mitchell. Photos by Brandy Somers. This material may not be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Thank you for respecting our intellectual property. - See more at: http://www.ilovemyburg.com/2013/06/14/a-working-glass-man-zn-stained-glass/?fb_source=pubv1#sthash.KHolNram.2g2nTeVN.dpuf

Copyright © 2012-13 · All Rights Reserved · ilovemyburg.com. Written content by Katie Mitchell. Photos by Brandy Somers. This material may not be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Thank you for respecting our intellectual property. - See more at: http://www.ilovemyburg.com/2013/06/14/a-working-glass-man-zn-stained-glass/?fb_source=pubv1#sthash.KHolNram.2g2nTeVN.dpuf

Comments

  1. Mr. Ron VickersAugust 15, 2013 at 6:29 AM

    Wow, my first read makes me want to get my wife to read this NOW. Carrie you really should get paid money for writing with this insights.

    Ron

    ReplyDelete

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