His name was Ducky. He was a large, yellow duck, probably the size of a sack of potatoes, and just as malleable too. Ducky was my “birth” animal, and all of my brothers and my sister received one, like some kind of initiation gift from The Giver. My older brother had the Wack-a-Roony-Kid, which was an orange duck with blue wings that looked as though it had been shot out of a cannon; my younger brother received a large blue bear—though I forget its name.
While they were ostensibly representative of each child, they were also our comfort object, like a blanket or a binkie. Ducky was the toy I ran to when I was upset. I would lay in bed and cry and hold onto him, and I would take him with me Christmas mornings to sit by the tree, and sometimes I would just show him things.
“Look, Ducky! It’s snowing! Look at all the rain, Ducky! Ducky, that’s a school bus! Goodbye, Ducky!”
I am unsure of what became of Ducky. I had him long into my 20s, and now he’s gone. We’ve moved a few homes over the years, and I am pretty sure he was with me. Chances are he was thrown out by accident, or maybe he’s still there in my parents’ house under an old piece of furniture, and I never actually took him with me. If that’s true, I will have to put him away or preserve him forever in some kind of cryo-tube for stuffed animals. But before he goes away…I guess I wouldn’t mind one last hug from my pal, because some days—when I’m upset mostly—the pangs of youth rise up, and I feel an urge to pull him close.
