The Frog

It was a furry creature. In the haze and daze I was in, I ran towards it. This was funny because it was motionless, appearing poised to climb. This wasn’t the season for frogs. It wasn’t the season for anything to be anywhere near me. It wasn’t the season for me to chase motionless creatures.

White frogs do not belong to my territory. They are aliens. Perhaps it was a prince. It was too late in the day and in life for me to get him to regain his former glory. Instead of a kiss, I took a toothbrush (as close as it gets) and touched it. No movement, just the leg held tightly as though attempting to move. Was it afraid? Did it know where to go?

Suddenly, I realised: Was I afraid? Did I know where to go?

I went closer, hoping to meet its eyes. I like eye contact; I can see meaning in dilated pupils and the limpidity that skirts the rim. I can see lashes fall due to crowding and tears due to loneliness. I can see the seeing of the unseen.

But how do you see eyes of those that have their backs turned to you? I kept watching, thinking…and in the thoughts came a recollection. The frog was not a frog. It was a ball of cotton I had stuffed in the netted grille of the bathroom vent to prevent any frogs or other creatures for entering an opening.

Why do we close doors and then expect visitors we can shoo off?