I arrive at Angela’s office to fix ‘the duck’ as it has come to be known, after several emails and rescheduled meetings. I have been thinking about the duck and talking about the duck more than I ever did when it was just sitting on the windowsill of the bathroom. I have created a whole narrative around the duck, or rather around mending the duck in which I am, in fact, the central protagonist. We observe the duck, the broken off shards, the blot of blood still on the inside. I turn the pieces over in my hand while Angela and I talk about births and catches and, of course, my mother. Angela hands me the golden glue, has me apply it along the crack while holding the two pieces together firmly, and I am ever so slightly aware of the sensation of creating something new.
Picture: Angela Maddock