Teal: Any one of several species of small fresh water ducks of the genus Anas and the subgenera Querquedula and Nettion
Solid: Having the constituent parts so compact or so firmly adhering as to resist the impression or penetration of other bodies
Primer: One who or that which primes
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The early evening crickets serenade each other as I take my seat. Front row and full of splinters. This is our bench, mine and yours. It’s even got your name written on the plaque, solid and real, just as if you were here with me now. It used to be a rich toffee copper, but today it’s the colour of an overcast sky. It looks like it could be a reflection of the pond, a murky blue, cold and mysterious. You remember the pond, don’t you? The one with the ducks? You used to enjoy it so much here.
I remember the look in your eyes the last time we met, hollow and sparse, like artic tundra, so empty and alone. I’m sure my name was on the tip of your tongue; rumbling on your lips, ready to erupt and spill forth like hot lava. But I guess it cooled; a small, calcified island in the stream of your consciousness. I bet my name sounded like static to you, early evening crickets chirruping as though you were tuned into the wrong station. The doctor’s tablets couldn’t always change it back.
The wind is picking up and it’s grabbing at me, even through my coat. I’m wearing the one with the sheepskin inside, tatty and yellowed; it’s the one you got me for Christmas in ’89. Still going strong, just like me. It is cold though, cold enough for the ducks to be huddling amongst the reeds at the edge of the pond.
They look like Teals, at least I think they do. I saw them labeled in a book once; you got that for me too, picked it up at some jumble sale or second hand store. You told me it would be a good hobby. The Teals remind me of you, so I make a mental note of what they look like. Watertight petals of brackish brown feather, small black eyes, opals flashing with curiosity, a leathery bill like a scuba flipper.
They remember me even though you didn’t. I wish you had. I am the one who feeds. We were the ones who fed. I’ve brought the breadcrumbs with me. You always liked the ducks. Well, you did on your good days, on your bad days – not so much. You liked how they could fly away from their problems whenever they wanted.
I miss you, but I thick I have to set you free now. I loosen the blue plastic tag around the bread bag and start throwing crumbs. You will always be with me. Even though the bread is grey and speckly, the ducks swarm around me; quacking at their primer, who directs them like a concert virtuoso. Be safe. Crumbs here, crumbs there, beaks squabbling amid croaky yaps of excitement. I smile when I realise you’ll spend the winter down south, you always did want to spend Christmas in the sun.
I place your urn at the foot of the bench, empty, and watch the ducks fly off into the sunset.
Stories On The Sofa 