Goose's Story
Goose's Story Goose's Story Henry hears the honking first. He circles the pond, around and a half, sending up splashes of warm spring mud all over his winter coat. Henry knows the geese are coming. And then I know it, too. They land in couples and stand in threes and band together in bunches like people. Old geese, young geese, grandmas, uncles, cousins, and nieces. Each one painted in black and white and gray and brown. Some geese sit and some geese sleep. Some drink and bathe and swim and
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Goose's Story
Goose's Story
Henry hears the honking first.He circles the pond, around and a half, sending up splashes of warm spring mud all over his winter coat.Henry knows the geese are coming. And then I know it, too.
They land in couples and stand in threes and band together in bunches like people.Old geese, young geese, grandmas, uncles, cousins, and nieces.Each one painted in black and white and gray and brown.
Some geese sit and some geese sleep.Some drink and bathe and swim and sun.Pecking and nibbling, they celebrate spring. All afternoon.
Then Henry breaks free to take back his pond.And the Sunday geese jump for the sky.Their wings spread wider than my arms can reach.Their legs tuck under like airplane wheels.There is honking and barking - and giggles from me.
Until I see her. One goose alone.She doesn't flutter her feathers or hiss at Henry.She doesn't stretch out her neck. And she doesn't fly away.
"Go!" I shout and stamp my boots. But the goose doesn't move.
She stares at us and we stare at her.First at what is right about her. And then at what is wrong.
"It's your foot!" I whisper. And then I can't move either.
My heart is thumping so loud I'm sure she can hear it."Oh, goose," I say, "what happened to you?"
I want to stay and watch her. Make sure she's all right.But I might scare her even more. And I'm scared, too.So I lead Henry toward our house.
The next day when I see the goose, her foot is gone.I feel the saddest I've ever felt.I stand on one foot myself, fixing my eyes on the geese at the other side of the pond.Losing my balance when I've counted to thirty - seven.
"Unlucky goose," says Papa, looking away.
"Some kind of accident," says Mama, looking angry.
For the rest of the spring, the other geese swim and the other geese nibble.They build their nests and show off their young.Soon they teach the babies to follow and the babies to swim.To stay away from raccoons and foxes - and from the goose with one foot.I never thought geese could be so mean.
Every day when I look out, I see the goose in the same place.Bending over to get at the grass.Balancing her weight the way a ballerina would.Now even Henry knows she's different, and doesn't chase her.
I want to feed her. Pet her. Be her friend. But Mama says I mustn't."A wild goose has to learn to live with her weakness. Or she won't live at all."
"Try to be strong, little girl," Papa tells me, "and let her be." But being strong is hard.
When Mama and Papa aren't looking, I sneak my goose some cracked corn.I talk to her like Mama talks to me when I'm sick. Soft and quiet."I'm so sorry, goose. Does it hurt? Don't be afraid."
Then I tell her a story like Papa tells me before I go to bed.I blow her a kiss, and whisper, "Try to be strong, little goose."
One day when I look out, I don't see the goose with one foot.I run outside - and there she is - over where the grass is greener - hobbling on her stumpy leg.Like my grandma with her cane.
"Atta girl," I whisper, the way my teacher does when I try something hard at school.
