The Old Man and The Duck
A simple tale
The Old Man shuffled along the cracked sidewalk each afternoon at three, plastic grocery bag dangling from his wrist. The park pond waited beyond the iron gate, its surface dotted with lily pads and the occasional ripple from a jumping fish. He had followed this route for years, ever since retirement.
The Duck spotted him from the far bank. It paddled across the pond, cutting a vee through the water.
The Old Man eased onto the bench facing the pond. The wood had weathered, and one armrest wobbled under his weight. He opened the bag and pulled out a handful of frozen peas. His own doctor found out about his park ventures and forbade him to feed them bread months ago, claiming it swelled in the birds’ stomachs. Peas, the doctor said, were better.
The Duck arrived and climbed the slope of the bank. She stopped a few yards away, waiting.
The Old Man scattered a few peas onto the grass between them.
“There you are,” he said.
The Duck waddled forward, pecking each pea with stabs. It kept one eye on him the entire time.
A pair of teenagers tossed a frisbee nearby, their shouts carrying across the water. A woman walked her spaniel along the far path. The Old Man noticed none of it. His attention stayed on The Duck.
The Duck finished the first handful and looked up, expecting more.
The Old Man tossed more peas, closer this time. “Greedy today, huh?”
The Duck quacked once, perhaps thanking The Old Man, perhaps just quacking because that’s what ducks do.
He worked through the bag slowly, rationing the peas so the ritual would last. When only a dozen remained, he cupped them in his palm and held his hand out flat.
The Duck hesitated, then stepped forward. It took the peas one by one from his hand, its beak cool against his skin.
The Old Man watched her eat.
“My Margaret used to bring you oats,” he said. “She claimed peas were rabbit food.”
The Duck finished and gave a small shake, settling her feathers.
The Old Man brushed his hands together.
“All gone. Doctor’s orders.”
She lingered a moment longer, then turned and waddled back to the water, slid in without a splash, and paddled toward the center.
The Old Man remained on the bench. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a single slice of crustless bread, wrapped in tissue. He had saved it from breakfast, defying the doctor in this small way.
He tore off a corner and tossed it onto the group, knowing full well that The Duck or her friends would find it in short order.
“Rabbit food,” he said to no one.
The Duck floated in the middle of the pond, content and unaware. The Old Man folded the rest of the bread back into the tissue, and returned it to his pocket.
Tomorrow he just might unthaw the peas to make it easier for The Duck to digest.
The Old Man was just in one of those wild moods
.