CONNIE

CONNIE

A gravel path winds through the park surrounded by forests of evergreen, alders, and cottonwood. Connie walks to the park every day. Down an apartment elevator, pushing a four wheeled walker, she crossed a busy street, and slowly made her way to the large pond. Her purse and bags of seed purchased at Wild Birds Unlimited were positioned on her walker. Varieties of ducks heard her coming. So did I yesterday. Standing on the far side of the pond, I heard her wheels on gravel before I saw her. 

Ducks on water moved toward me at Connie’s feeding station. 

Rounding a corner, ducks on land followed Connie as she walked toward me, small steps, duck steps. Connie is less than five feet tall, eighty-eight years old, came to Canada fifty years ago, constantly cheerful, an inspiration. Her hands, fingers with severe knuckles bent from arthritis dipped into the seed bag. Ducks from the path waited. Ducks from the water climbed the banks. With her restricted arm movement, she tossed seed toward her friends. To me she said, “Take some, you can throw it farther.” She and I talked in the warming sunshine, looking into each other’s watery senior eyes. We talked about pets. Ducks are her pets now. She used to have two cats. Each lived about eighteen years. She won’t get another cat now. “I’m eighty-eight. Who will look after them?”