Son of the pond

 The poor skinny father held the hand of his poor skinny son.
He was guiding him through the underpass and around a barrier chain into a park.
A curious woman touched the young boy's hand to get his attention, but he didn't respond.
He gripped his father's hand and put his weight on his father. He neither grinned nor gimaced. It was like a feature of the landscape. The autumn sun suddenly shone on them as they emerged from the underpass. The skinny son let go of his father's hand and with his other hand, freed himself from his father's grip. He ran down and knelt carefully on the edge of the duck pond a look of urgent excitement across his brow and eyes. The kind of look a child would have at seeing the icecream truck driving away, then making a uturn, returning all of that hope.
The Son felt his Father step up next to him. The son pointed out at the few ducks across the pond. He didn't quite know how to react. Making swimming motions with his arms, and gulping air as if he were underwater. The sun reflected from the motioning surface, literally hundreds of flicking waves moving the twinkling sun faster and faster. The son was quiet completely embracing the moment with the ducks. They were anything particular, just swimming slowly in a group from one side of the pond to another.
The father was also dead quiet, just observing his son, as mesmserized with him as his son was with those ducks. And so the sunday afternoon would often pass like this.
As the sunset Father took his son's hand and slowly picked him up, now a frown had formed one that seemed the boy had put into forming. Turning back in the direction of the car park, tears streamed down the boys cheeks and onto his father's forearms.
"Don't fret my son, we will back here next week." And next week with the exception of a few details, would be exactly the same, from the fixation with the water and ducks to the tears he would shed on their way back to the old beat up car, back to their twenty meter town flat.