Livora Gracely

The rain arrived exactly on schedule.

The geese considered this excellent organization.

Grandpa considered it an opportunity.

The little boy simply wore his goose hat.

Nobody remembered who had made it.

Grandma suspected Grandpa.

Grandpa suspected the geese.

Neither explanation sounded impossible.

Every Thursday morning Grandpa visited the old pond at the edge of the village.

Not because the geese needed company.

Because they expected conversation.

Grandpa believed every proper walk deserved an audience.

The geese agreed.

They followed him with remarkable professionalism.

The little boy hurried beside him.

His white shirt had already collected three raindrops.

His white trousers collected several more.

The goose-shaped cap remained perfectly dry.

Nobody understood why.

The geese seemed oddly respectful of it.

One particularly determined goose marched beside the boy the entire way.

Whenever the boy slowed down,

the goose slowed too.

Whenever he skipped over a puddle,

the goose attempted the same maneuver.

Its landing lacked elegance.

Its enthusiasm made up the difference.

Grandpa smiled.

“I believe you’ve been adopted.”

The boy looked at the goose.

The goose looked back.

Neither objected.

By the time they reached the wooden bridge, six more geese had quietly joined the procession.

Nobody had invited them.

Geese rarely waited for invitations.

A passing baker removed his cap.

He assumed something ceremonial was taking place.

The village postman stepped aside.

He had delivered many unusual things.

A walking parade of politely determined geese was entirely new.

Grandpa continued without hurrying.

He believed important journeys should never feel rushed.

Especially the unnecessary ones.

The rain softened.

Small ripples spread across the pond.

The youngest gosling wandered toward the boy and examined his curious hat.

It tilted its head left.

Then right.

The boy tilted his head too.

For several thoughtful seconds, they appeared to be introducing themselves.

Grandpa quietly cleared his throat.

“I believe,” he said, “they’ve finally decided you’re one of the apprentices.”

“Apprentices for what?” asked the boy.

Grandpa watched the line of white birds stretching behind them.

“For walking beautifully,” he replied.

The boy looked down at his muddy boots.

“They don’t look beautiful.”

Grandpa nodded.

“No.”

“They simply know where they’re going.”

The geese continued home together.

So did Grandpa.

So did the little boy.

By afternoon, several children in the village had begun folding paper hats with tiny beaks.

None of the hats persuaded any geese.

Only one did.

The geese, it seemed, had their own way of recognizing family.

And nobody in the village had ever thought it polite to argue with a goose.