Duck Mourning

It was an innocent morning. The sky was dark purple with the coming sunrise and the air smelled of cinnamon rolls. Dissolved from the sky, the moon was no longer visible. Way too tired to go back to sleep, I crawled out of my lukewarm bed, snuck across the limp floorboards of my house,and crept out the door. It snapped shut behind me, startling me even though I was used to it. The sand was cold and damp as i walked to the dock; my happy place. Splintered wood scratched the palms of my hands as I hoisted myself onto it. My short legs dangled over the edge and my toes grazed over the icy water.
I sat upright. The corner of my eye caught a flash of turquoise as it dipped and skidded into the water. Was it crash-landing air plane? Another person? Or was it the flashy car of the man from the bank driving down the road? Nope. It was just Dole, Dad's old pet duck. Inside my head, I laughed, remembering the day Dad brought Dole home. That mad duckling must have chased me for at least an hour. I could see my four-year-old self running and screaming like a wild child from a 5 inch, lint colored baby duck.
Dole sure didn't look like that anymore. His oil- rainnbow feathers and smooth, yellow bill glided on the water. He was oddly self confident for a duck and always looked sure of himself. Dad had been the same way. No matter what he was doing; starting a new painting, fixing a light bulb in our dinky house, of patiently sitting next to me as he taught me how to fish. No matter what, Dad always knew what he was doing and did it well. Always.