The Easter duck
It was an impulsive purchase, idiotic in hindsight. My hard-earned money spent on a whim, but I loved the silliness of it. The face of a white duckling peeked out from an Easter bunny suit, themed around the festivities.
I turned to my partner and made a promise, "This will be the first nounours that I give our child."
The toy reminded me of my first plushie, a bunny named Mister Rabbit. He was given to me by colleagues of my mother, a gay couple, who once took me to the local shopping mall. As the story goes, the cops were called on them because people thought they were abducting a child.
That year, a famous child molester and abductor had been caught, so tensions were high. At least they could laugh about it afterward, as I apparently clutched their legs and screamed my lungs out when the police came to check on me. It's still up for debate whether Mister Rabbit was a consolation or a reward for my behavior.
A year and a few months later, my Easter duck has found its way to the second shelf of the coffee table, hidden beneath a tablecloth.
By now, I know that I am practically infertile and will soon begin treatment. I'm in good health; it's just not in the cards for me right now. We need time, but it's the one thing we don't have to spare.
A friend of mine recently had a beautiful baby boy.
And I believe my Easter duck needs a new home, one where he is not gathering dust and waiting on a miracle.
Then again, why are these hands shaking as they reach for the wrapping paper for my silly little white duck?
…ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
Conflicted greetings,
Rat