WATERFOWL

Thanksgiving Day found me at my grandfather's house for a few moments of quiet and reflection on this first Thanksgiving without him alive. I stood out amongst his Douglas fir trees, which are returning to their natural look since they haven't been pruned in at least two years. I walked around his house and his yard. I stood on his back porch and stared at the garden that has been reclaimed by the lawn and the surrounding wilds.

Then I saw them—ceramic ducks hanging on the side of his shed.

For whatever reason, my grandfather was fascinated by ducks of all stripes. He wasn't a hunter, but a fisherman, so I never understood his love of waterfowl. Perhaps he just liked their presence on the lakes he frequented. He never bothered to offer an explanation when asked, either. He would just laugh and quack and make a few silly faces when pressed for an answer. If the question was asked again then the response was the same.

So there we were: me, reminiscing about former times; four ceramic ducks, two of which were at one time identical, but are now both missing wings; and the ghost of my grandfather, walking through his beloved Christmas trees, quacking the punchline to the joke.