Ducks

This morning I close Colby's bank account. There is less than $10 in the account, but it is something that needs to be done all the same. This is the third time I have driven to the bank to do this. The first two times I can't bring myself to walk in the door. No parent should have to do this. Today I walk in, but when someone asks if they can help me I shake my head, turn around and walk out. I sit in the truck for 15 minutes. Closing Colby's account is so final, so personal. And, it seems such an invasion of his privacy. I do some deep breathing exercises then walk into the bank again.

This time I walk into the office of a young banker not much older than Colby and explain what I need. I have brought everything I think you need, I say. Birth and death certificates, Colby's Social Security card, my driver's license. The young banker offers her condolences and the way she says it, I believe she truly means it. Bless her.

In the middle of processing her paperwork she reaches down into a drawer and pulls out a form for me to sign. Then, after a pause, she reaches back into the drawer and pulls out a small, yellow rubber duck, the kind that kids play with in the bathtub, and places it on the desk. "I don't know why I just did that," she says with a puzzled smile. But I do.

When Colby was eleven, Fan Fair, the week-long country music extravaganza that morphed into the CMA Music Fest, had The Beach Boys as their final headline act. Their record label had just released a duet album with The Beach Boys and the stars of country music singing Beach Boy hits. I was a publicist and artist manager at the time and scored two backstage passes, one for Colby and one for me. When he was a kid, Colby always did think The Beach Boys were cool.

Backstage were large bins of beach "stuff," as Colby would say: over-sized sunglasses, flip flops, sun screen, and lots and lots of little yellow ducks. Colby grabbed a duck and promptly walked up to The Beach Boys lead singer, Mike Love, and asked if he would sign it. Ever-ready publicist that I was, I grabbed my camera and clicked off a shot. Colby then wandered through the huge backstage area and approached one Beach Boy after the next. He even managed to get a signature from the elusive Brian Wilson and got into a conversation with Carl Wilson, who passed on not too many months later.

Colby treasured that duck and it has a place of honor in his room next to the photo of him with Mike Love. Sitting here in the bank, with an identical duck on the desk (minus signatures), brings back a warm, comforting memory of that wonderful day. Weeks ago, days, ago, I would have broken down at the sight of the duck. But today . . . today it brings peace, an inner smile, a spiritual hug from beyond.

I sign the form, the banker hands me six dollars and some change, then picks the duck up to put it back in the drawer. "Leave it out," I say. "It's cute and maybe it will bring a smile to one of your customers." She nods and puts the duck back on her desk.