Written with the prompts: don’t feed the ducks for health and hygiene, a door rattling in the wind, helpful, they come back to bless us
My sister Darlene told me not to feed the ducks, lecturing me on health and hygiene and the ideal diet of the typical mallard which should not include processed flour. Ducks shouldn’t eat people food, okay? And what’s more, if you feed them, they’ll come back, probably bring their friends too, and they’ll all make a big mess on the redwood deck. God knows none of us wants that.
Poor Darlene. She rattles like a flimsy door in a wind storm, trying so hard to hold on to some control, but every one can see that door is filled with gaps in the seal. I’ve learned it’s inevitable: you’ve got to let go once in a while, open up, and let the wind rush through. It’s the only way.
It wasn’t my first choice to come here after David died. I hope it’s temporary, until I can get the paperwork straightened out and get back on my feet. I try to be helpful. I do my share of the cooking and cleaning, but Darlene has high standards. It’s hard to measure up.
Darlene won’t let me put out seeds for the finches or oranges slices for the crows. But I sit in her back yard, entering into the silence, watching and listening. The first night I heard the tapping of an acorn woodpecker on the neighbor’s oak tree. The following dayI heard the stit stit stit of humming birds, clicking and squeaking like wind-up toys. Then the chip of a phoebe, the squawk of a scrub jay. I looked around, feeling a bit frantic, hearing but not seeing some of my valley favorites. Not a one showed themselves.
Then I heard a soft throaty call, like a tremolo of wooden whistles, and finally I felt at ease. They come back every year to bless us—the sandhill cranes. They sweep down with their broad angelic wings to winter in the marshes and fallow fields, as I too have done, sinking into the miasma of sibling rivalry to distract me from the pain of my loss. They bring me love’s reminder: Darlene may have her flaws, but a lack of generosity is not one of them. This is a warm spot, a welcoming familiar place, and perhaps I will still be here come summer.
Photo by Laura Seaman at Unsplash
