Suzette Duck Forgets What She Was Doing (and Finds Something Better)

Suzette Duck had a full day planned. She just couldn’t remember what it was.

It had started well enough: the morning was pink and golden like marmalade on toast, and the pond rippled in soft agreement with the sky. Suzette had fluffed her feathers, eaten half a biscuit (jam side down), and wandered to the edge of the water, thinking about her day.

But when she looked for the shape of it, there was nothing there. Just a soft, duck-shaped space where a plan might’ve been.

“Was I going to gather moss?” she wondered aloud, glancing at a particularly nice patch. “No, too green. Maybe I was going to mail something.”

She checked under her wing.

No letter.

“Hmm,” she said, and began waddling in the general direction of the path that sometimes led to the post stump.

Along the way, she was distracted by a caterpillar doing absolutely nothing in a very committed way. She admired that. She stopped to sit beside it.

“You’re very good at being still,” she said kindly.

The caterpillar blinked, or maybe it didn’t. Either way, Suzette felt better.

Eventually, she reached the bridge made of sticks. She paused, squinting at the sky.

“Was I going to bake something?”

There were no eggs in her satchel. No satchel, either.

She waddled on.

By midday, she had gathered two leaves, and a pebble shaped like a sideways thought.

She sat down under the leaning tree near the far bend of Widdershins Pond—the place where Oswald Heron liked to take his walk and second cup of tea.

“You’re out early,” Oswald remarked, thoughtfully.

“I think I’m late,” said Suzette, “but I’m not sure for what.”

Oswald considered this.

“Are you lost?”

“Oh, no,” she said brightly. “Just between ideas.”

They sat a while.

Suzette leaned back, feet in the water. A breeze passed, tugging the edge of her feathers. Somewhere, a bee buzzed nearby.

“I was trying to do something today,” she said at last, “but I’ve done a lot of nothing instead.”

Oswald, who had once believed in only doing things on purpose, looked at her crumb-dusted feathers, the twig in her tail, the joy in her eyes.

“And how has that gone?” he asked.

She smiled. “Better than expected.”

That evening, Suzette returned to her half-made nest, added the sideways pebble to her shelf, and placed the two leaves in a bowl beside her bed.

She never did remember what she was meant to do that day.

But the breeze smelled of pine and toast. And she was full of something—unmeasured, unnamed, entirely enough.

Lady Bergamot

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