The Jackass Penguin waded across the wet rocks with the kind of dignity that only a creature named after an insult could muster. Its black-and-white feathers were slick with saltwater, and its stubby wings flapped uselessly as it navigated the uneven terrain. 

Tourists snapped photos and laughed at its awkward gait, but the penguin didn’t seem to care. It had places to go and things to do—or not. Maybe it just knew in some deep, unspoken way that it was exactly where it was supposed to be. 

I watched it while I tapped an absent-minded rhythm on the railing. I wasn’t there for the penguins. I wasn’t there for the salty breeze, or the postcards, or the overpriced fish and chips. I was there because my brother, who loved this place, had once pressed a cold soda can against my cheek on a sweltering day and said;

“Listen, Sis, if you ever need a place to go and just think, go there. The penguins won’t judge you .”

A stray soda can rolled against my shoe–empty, dented, its label faded in the salt air. I nudged it with my foot, and for a moment I could almost feel the phantom press of condensation against my skin, hear the crack of the tab, the way my brother would grin when the fizz hit his nose. For that moment, he was here again, living through me and those who loved him. 

Best regards,

Patricia Ashley Lambert