An inky lake trimmed by midnight-blue mountains, the peaks lost in a thick blanket of pea soup fog, drifts into focus. A raft of café au lait-hued Mallards paddle toward the spot on the bank where I picnic with my family. They reach the shore, then slosh through the reeds to ask for handouts. Their congenial quack, quack, quacking pierces the veil of silence. All four of us transfixed by their antics, we forget our travel-weariness.
We forget that we once thought ourselves apart from the world.
The beauty of that moment settles me like my mother tucking my childhood self into bed at night. I don’t have any answers for albatrosses or wolves, but I trust that I’ll have the faculties to take on whatever my soul presents for me to undertake.
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