Portrait of a Family: Swans Carry On

by Wendy K. Mages

A pair of graceful white swans glides among the flocks of ducks and geese. Although I visit this park often, I’ve never before seen swans.

Suddenly, I glimpse a downy grey cygnet swimming between the pair. Diligently guarding their newborn, the two adults carefully navigate the waters, protecting their baby from harm.

Marveling at this idyllic trio I, who grew up with divorced parents, long for a time when my own family felt so intact, so safe.

In this park I, along with families and the elderly, find respite walking along well-groomed trails and pristine ponds and not infrequently, professional photographers accompany those wishing to capture special moments amidst flowers and foliage. Undaunted by peering joggers and dog walkers, people in their finery smile for the cameras to commemorate engagements, weddings, and new babies, as well as to create tasteful holiday-card portraits of the whole family in festive attire. 

I snap photos of the swan family. 

I return to the park the following day to discover I’m not alone in my admiration of the swans. A photographer, perhaps waiting for paying clients to arrive, tracks the swans through the long lens of her camera. A young boy, picnicking with his parents, points excitedly at the little cygnet. In response to the boy’s gesture, the photographer says, “A few days ago, at the other pond, I saw swans with seven babies”.

I walk to the adjoining pond hoping I too can catch sight of the swans with seven cygnets. There are no swans there. I visit daily, but never see seven cygnets.

It begins to dawn on me that the photographer didn’t see another pair of swans with seven babies. She saw this pair with seven babies. The six missing cygnets haunt me, as I watch their intrepid parents carry on with the last of their offspring.

I have no children of my own, yet I ache for these parents and for their lost babies. Unlike these valiant swans, I doubt I’d have the courage to carry on so bravely.

Throughout the spring, I continue to make my daily pilgrimage to the park. I start referring to the swan family as my swans. I text friends photos of my swans, as they text photos of their kids hanging upside-down on monkey bars.

Weeks later, when I spot the swans, the cygnet is missing. My heart grieves the loss of this precious bird, still too young to have flown away, wings spread wide, soaring into the sky.

Swans mate for life, I remind myself. At least they have each other. As summer turns to autumn, and autumn turns to winter, I continue to visit my swans. Admiring their fidelity, I yearn for a faithful partner of my own. 

Just before winter turns to spring, I find only a single swan, alone, partnerless.  I too am partnerless, alone in the world.

Mourning the missing swan, as if it were my own lost love, I watch the sole survivor sail forward on sunlit waters.