When I open the front door, a goose stands on my porch, square in my path to the mailbox. There’s a pond behind the house diagonal from mine. But I’ve never seen geese out and about before.

Full grown, starkly white, and staring right at me, I feel like I’m the intruder. Who will be the first to move?

It speaks in a gravelly half-goose, half-man voice. “A gentleman with manners would provide some hospitality and invite me in.” It steps toward me. I retreat, absurdly defeated.

Clearly, I am hallucinating. Either I hit my head this morning, or I’ve finally gone insane. The alternative is too bizarre.

Shaking my head, I open and close my eyes. It’s still there. I’m exhausted, depressed, and frankly don’t care enough. So I go with it.

“Pardon me, come right in.” I bow and open the door wider.

It flies in like a six-year-old’s paper airplane — awkward, screaming, and knocking the lamp over. I thought birds were supposed to be elegant. Or maybe it has a broken wing.

“My wings are - honk - just fine.” He perches on the couch. “And I thought you’d have your house more tidy.” He shakes his head and makes a tisking sound. Something in the sound or way he does it feels familiar.

“What do you want?” I plop down opposite him in my recliner.

“That’s no way to welcome your grandfather.” He scoots into the couch like he is at home or maybe in a nest. “A pillow would be nice. Maybe some snacks? Grapes — seedless obviously..”

Was that an eye roll? Can geese even do that? I sigh.

“My Grandpa James lives in Iowa.” I get up to find snacks, because darn it. He doesn’t get to say I’m a bad host like that.

“James is a good man, terrible fisher, but a good man. Mhmm.” He flutters his wing. “I’m not him though. Who else could I be Buddy?”

My stomach drops. “Papa Frank?” I turn around, grapes in hand, to see the goose on my couch. Papa Frank used to call me Buddy as a term of endearment.

His feet are tucked underneath him. And his pudgy body is tiny compared to the pillow next to him. But it’s his eyes — they are the same pale blue as my Papa Frank’s.

We were close when I was young. But then life happened, and we saw each other just at family events once a year. He passed away two years ago.

I can’t even remember the last real conversation we had. There’s a tightness to my throat at my childhood memories with him. Why would he feel the need to visit me now after he’s gone?

“A tidy nest invites the best.” He pecks the grapes from my hand with his beak. “You do want to have a partner at some point right?” The look I get is snarky and silly on a goose.

“How?”

“Well I thought you’d had the birds and the bees talk years ago. I mean you’re what.. in your thirties now?” He squawks and flaps his wings. It feels like he’s laughing at me.

“Of course I’ve had the talk! And no, I am much younger. Twenty-nine years old thank you very much.” I lean forward, cradling my head in my hands and elbows to knees. “How is this possible?”

“Egh.. I don’t have enough time to think about that. Let’s get to it!” He flies off the couch into a wobbly walk towards the back door.

“You have so much to learn.”

“About what?” I catch up to him and open the door for him.

“Everything.”

Papa Frank takes me for a walk to the pond. He’s quiet as I fill him in on my life since he passed away. My sister died, my girlfriend broke up with me, and I feel stuck at my job. Things aren’t exciting anymore.

“It’s important to not fly alone.”

“What does that even mean?” I rub my head.

We’ve made it to a grassy area next to the pond and lounge in the shade. This area reminds me of when Papa Frank took me fishing when I was a kid. He had the same hunched over posture as he does now as a goose. And when the wind blows his feathers, I swear I smell his old cologne, woodsy with a hint of spice.

“Being alone is always the easiest option. But you’re easier prey that way too. Isolated. Even when it’s harder, it’s better to come together and support each other. You need to get out more often.” He nods his head in a tilted kind of way that is nostalgic.

“I have friends.” I defend myself.

“Name one.” His gaze remains on the water.

My silence surprises me. I suppose I don’t have any true friends right now. None that I’ve hung out with in several months.

My parents live across the country. Any other relatives are also not nearby. When was the last time I went on a date?

My childhood house was always full. Relatives. Friends. It’s a stark contrast to my home now.

At least Papa Frank is here. And maybe there is some truth to his words. Maybe I could invite Ethan or Beth from work over.

Ethan is nice enough, and Beth likes animals. She also makes me laugh from time to time. I haven’t ever had the courage to ask her out, but maybe I could take her here to the pond. We could have a picnic.

For the rest of the day, we sit mostly in silence. Every so often, Papa Frank honks at other birds or talks to me in bird metaphors about life. And when we are finished watching the sun go down, we waddle back together.

“Some people call a group of geese a flock. But do you know another term I like more?” His whole body moves as he waddles. My walk is basically half steps so I don’t outwalk him.

“Hmm?” My head is so full from today.

“A gaggle.” He chortles. It’s loud, obnoxious, and almost wakes the neighborhood.

“Shhh..” I look at him pointedly. “You’re gonna wake people up.”

“Beauty sleep is important… but we all know that won’t help Leslie Sherman any.” His goose laugh bounces off the buildings into the night.

My neighbor, Leslie, turns her front porch light on. His honks make me laugh louder as we run back to my house. I feel excited. Alive. I almost honk too.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” My words are quieter than I expect them to be.

“Tomorrow?! Did you learn nothing about flocks and gaggles today? I’m staying with you!” He pushes past me when I open the door.

When I finally close my eyes, I hear Papa Frank’s soft snores. He’s curled up at the end of my bed. I don’t know what tomorrow will look like exactly.

But maybe Ethan would want to go for a run together or fish sometime. He’s an outdoorsy kind of guy. Or I could invite Beth over. I wonder if they’d get along with a talkative old goose.

My foot slips over to touch the underside of Papa Frank. It’s warm and familiar, like a sleepover as a kid to his house. And for the first time in years, the quiet doesn’t feel empty.

I’m part of a flock now.