Last Wednesday I went to Lake park. The dark purplish unknown shrub on the southern side of Lake Park and maroon maple leaves falling into the ground reminded me of the tragic death of my brother. A sudden storm began to move. The rain slackened, then turned to a soft drizzle, then it was gone. The sky lightened as the dark, low clouds left tiny Winona, Minnesota and headed southeast toward La Crosse, Wisconsin. Shortly before its scheduled departure over the horizon, the sun abruptly emerged for a brief encore.

“You can be a better swimmer than the ducks,” my brother Adam would say, “if you just follow my instructions.” I found some ducklings camouflaged beside a sharp greenish yellow stem produced from a wild lily. 'Ring-necked snowy’ ducks were swimming nearby. ‘Black turnstone’ pelicans were making circle. ‘Double-crested’ brown geese were fighting and squeaking. Maybe some were singing:

Unlike man who's afraid to dream,

We ducks know life's a continuous stream.

And 'though we may fall from the sky today,

We haven't gone that far away.

And it won't be long 'til we fly again,

Laughing at all those silly men!

I was amazed that how a little duckling could swim confidently! Are they trained from nature? But we are not swimmers by birth. “This is one of the drawbacks of the human being, the best creation of God,” Adam would say. "But I 've never heard of anyone being injured by learning how to swim." He used to inspire me always to know the unknown abilities.

In Bangladesh, we can swim in any lake, unlike here. We used to swim almost everyday in the lake specially the tourist site Rangamati Lake. Still I can remember my first swimming. It was an innocent walk towards the lake, two brothers holding hands and strolling casually through the cool, clear daylight. I was dressed in sky-blue Tommy Hilfiger jeans and a teal polo sweatshirt. Adam wore black lizard-skin boots with pointed toes, Levi’s, a well-starched peach button-down, which was unbuttoned well into the dark chest hair and exposed one thin gold chain. We had on swimming suit underneath. He was bushy-headed, dark-eyed with thick sideburns and solid chin. He had not shaved. We stopped by an old forest green date-tree and gazed at the majestic lake inching ever so slowly toward the bank. He decided to swim. “Let me start teaching you swimming and it’s essentially necessary.” He asked me, “What do you think?” I chuckled and shook his muscle-bound hand. I was splashing him with the tranquil green water. It was really exotic.

Abruptly Adam dragged me to away from the shore and told me to hold his shoulder tight, telling me not to worry about anything. My brother started swimming. I moved my leg and felt ecstasy as if I were a duck. I was only six. I did not notice when he left me alone in the middle of the lake. I cried, shouted in a loud voice and abused him. Actually he concealed behind me so that he could rescue me if needed. I was too perplexed to ask for any help. Anyway, I moved all my limbs and could get the cherished bank. Next seven days he taught me how to float easily. “I can tell you one thing,” Adam would say, “swimming means cycling. Okay? Paddling in the water is more important than moving hands. And you need to know how to float your whole body like the ducks without wasting much energy. You gotta balance your body weight according to the amount of water you are taking to swim. Always remember this formula of Arcimedis, the great hydrologist.” I would not have bullied him if I had known that he was making me a confident swimmer.

Then I learned different kinds of swimming style: ‘Butterfly,’ ‘Backstroke,’ ‘Chest,’ etc. for the next three months. Finally, I became champion in the ‘Army Swimming Team’ in 1993 when I was a Second Lieutenant in Six Signal Battalion in Bangladesh Army. But, I could not show him the desired trophy as he died in a plane crash on September 9, 1992. Four people were missing and presumed dead after that plane, a 6-seat single engine Piper aircraft, started to have trouble soon after it took off from Patenga airport and crashed into that Rangamati Lake.

The classical band at the Band-shell beside Winona Lake tuned up as it was Wednesday. I got up, walked aimlessly along the edge of the water. As if on cue, the music stopped as all eyes turned to watch the sun meet the water. Gray and flesh clouds lay low on the horizon and sank with the sun. Slowly they turned shades of orange, yellow and purple, pale shades at first, then, suddenly, brilliant tones. For a few seconds, the sky was a canvas and the sun splashed its awesome array of colors with bold strokes. Then the bright orange ball touched the water and within seconds was gone. The clouds became black and disappeared. A Winona sunset.

I heard the buzz of a black winged bee from a nest in a hickory and a whine of Highway 61 nearby. I smell a sour odor of a wood blueberry. The sound of the squeaking ducks made me grateful to him. I found tears in my eyes. It was the sixth anniversary of the day he died. What were the other good reasons behind my reminiscence of my brother? Maybe it was the flicker of those memories that strikes me, from time to time, exploring my grateful attitude towards my brother. It may be because I admire him to teach me how to swim. It may be because I love him from the core of my heart. Even after the ducks were long out of my sight, I found myself waving back. Okay, I thought, settling back down, maybe I would sit for a moment more. “You may not predict to what heights you can soar,” my brother Adam would say, “even you will not know until you spread your wings.”