Eleanor
I gazed out over the disused hospital patio. Beyond, brightly garbed workers drained the pond to make way for a new parkade. Ana dozed on the bed, Eleanor in the bassinet. I stood guard, a bulwark against the return of the frenzied excitement of the previous night. The world was hazy and calm.
Eleanor stirred. I leaned forward and kissed her soft face. That precious face in which my life and Ana’s mingled. Eleanor. My Eleanor.
A grey flash returned me to the window. A Canada goose had landed on one of the patio planter boxes, her belly sagging between her legs. I watched as she pulled at grassy tussocks and mossy terracotta to line the nearest box.
A crack from the former pond made us start. Yellow metal had torn an old willow up by its roots and was dragging it to the chipper. The goose bobbed her head, waited, and went back to her nesting. I looked down at Eleanor. Her womb-wrinkled hand waved, caught my finger, and held fast.
There was a knock.
‘How’s Mum? How’s Baby?’
I smiled wearily. ‘All’s quiet. We’re just sleeping off a change and a feed.’
‘Awwww, sounds good. I’ll come back when we’re a bit more awake.’
‘Oh, um, and I think there’s a goose building a nest out here,’ I nodded out the window. The nurse came over. ‘But she’s a long way from water… or even grass.’
‘Oh, yeah, it’s been a bad year for them. I’ll call animal control.’ She left before I could respond.
Eleanor’s grip tightened around my finger. Outside, the goose hurriedly lined her planter.
Erik Peters is a teacher and avid mediaevalist from Canada. Erik’s work with marginalised students has profoundly influenced his writing, which has been published in numerous magazines including Coffin Bell, Superlative Lit, Prospectus, The Louisville Review, and The Dead Mule School. Read all Erik’s publications at www.erikpeters.ca or @erikpeterswrites.