I stood at the far end of a long, shallow reflecting pond, fuzzy green with algae and scum, offering no reflection. Four brown ducks, aligned in a row, glided toward the opposite end, taking turns bobbing under then popping up above the surface. Four perfect triangles, feathered and syncopated, arose then vanished. One’s bottom would pop up, submerge its head, feasting on some delicacy which lives in green murky still waters; then the next’s.
I now understand my son’s early fascination with toys that required he press down on a lever to make four bright shapes appear, then disappear. His delight each time one of the four brightly colored animal heads or shapes emerged, seemingly by magic, seemingly by his own doing. He would greet the green square with a sigh. Smile at the blue triangle. Laugh at the yellow circle. Get mad if his lever press wasn’t strong enough to release the red star.
To signals and rhythms to which I was not privy, they bobbed and glided. The moss blanket showed barely any sign of disturbance, concealed little brown legs paddling and propelling. I turned away before they reached the concrete edge, not wanting to disturb the magic of this unexpected and delicate ballet, a late summer danse des petits canard on a pool that on previous visits offered the gilded reflection of the leaves, the trees, the viewer.
I, too, make my way like the ducks, my rhythms and energy obscured under the scum’s concealing layer. My emotions leap from one foot to the next, high in the air I launch my desires, I experience whole moments with both feet off the ground, alive with flight, untethered by gravity. He doesn’t see what I feast on below the surface, doesn’t see the movement as I glide and propel myself onward. He stays on his edge of the pool, no longer pressing levers to make my bright colors appear, no longer waiting for his reflection in me.