The first one appeared on a lukewarm Christmas Day.

It’s proud yellow carelessly threw my drab colours into disarray.

It had my fathers laughing eyes painted with a clumsy hand, lovingly unique.

When poked, it released an exuberant squeak.

After that that there was no escape.

They appear when I sleep and when I wake.

My shelves are lined with them sitting wing by wing.

I see yet another one and let my laughter sing.

Our joy weaves, twining together.

I expect him to be by my side forever.

Until one day no more ducks come.

And I am left staring at the first, feeling numb.

I hurt and cry and stare and sleep.

The effort to live just seems too steep.

I lash out at my ducks, they fall to the floor.

And sob violently under the mountain of yellow duckies, I can’t take any more.