The Frog Pond
The rain’s moisture seeps into my car, smelling like the pond where my brother and I hopped across rocks, catching frogs to show to each other and then release. We marveled in their throats expanding, their long legs, but not at our own invincibility. We just were. My brother leading and I following, no matter the path.
When we now speak across distance and all the years, we don’t quite connect. Still, with the smell of childhood blanketing me, the scraggly girl and the lean boy return, leaping across obstacles together. The downpour continues, and I can’t see what’s ahead.
Art Credit: Mark Robinson
(with minor edits)
A beautiful memory.