When I was in high school, on a school morning, I was bounced
from the bathroom for a few minutes. I move out to the laundry
room, which had a mirror and a sink. Close enough. I am ardently
working on my hair, even then a useless task.
My brother, an avid duck hunter, was out hunting early that morning, had some
luck, brought the downed duck home and tossed it on top of the washing
machine. We think it is dead. We are wrong.
I am fussing with my bangs, when out of the corner of my eye, I see movement.
“Hey!” I yell at my family, loud enough to carry through the house. “This
duck is alive.” My family thought I was seeing a twitch or two, a muscular
What I am seeing is a duck who is sitting up and looking at me.
The thing got up and walked around the top of the washer. With every increase
in movement and intention, I increase the decibels and octaves. Screeching is the
word for it.
My family decides there was more than a muscle contraction going on and
hits the laundry room just in time for the duck to take flight. I open the backdoor
as it circles the laundry room and glides slowly around the laundry room and out the back door.
My brother still has to forgive me for that one.