Thursday July 15th

Day 86

Early morning, walking through puddles in the park, we are delighted by six baby ducklings feeding on the grass at the edge of the lake. They are palmfuls of yellow and brown fluff, their tiny wings like truncated thumbs. One of them, bolder than the rest, waddles towards us. We stay very still. His siblings follow at a safe distance. When I crouch down they all scatter back to their mother. She stands sentinel nearby not at all alarmed by our presence - calm, watchful, proud of her brood.

She reminds me of the mothers and fathers flooding the streets of our university town in their smart jackets and summer dresses - a son or a daughter between them in a long black gown, the hood trimmed with purple or white. Graduation day. And of course I remember mine, thirty five years ago, on a windy July day in another city, making my parents happy.