The power in my house today is on, off, on, off, now on again. A transformer blew on a street by the same name as the River I love.
My son is home sick. I’ve been writing excessively. After a quick run out to buy some chicken soup, I see my phone light up.
Another friend had a baby born into her life. Grandmas and Wise Friends Abound. How could I miss this? There’s been lots of baby birthing this month.
Ah, that’s why I’m crying. Not all grief. It is also relief.
I turn onto my street, and there are a pair of ducks on the side of the road. Right by my house, splashing in a puddle.
In my life with my mom, there have always been ducks.
Ducks are part of our nature language – Harlequins at Beavertail foretelling of things to come; a pair of Mallards who returned each year to the flooding puddle behind my childhood home; another set who just showed up at her apartment, and ducks, geese and even osprey out back in the pretty river.
Ducks tell of moms and daughters and pairings and nature. Ducks tell of honking and talking and visits and water.
Ducks are unafraid of us, and ducklings know I’ll help get them to water (there’s a funny story here for another day).
I stop and talk to them. They don’t care one bit. I’m delighted.
Welcome to the world Saoirse, and Zahara, and Zehera E. Thank you grandmothers and wise aunties for sharing these babies with me.
