Frogs
by
Karen Kao
I
Father's boats were fearless. A mast out of a matchstick. A sail of leaves. A vessel delicate enough for an elf.
Remember the day he gave us two? We ran to the river. Captain of the fleet, I called myself. I launched my boat and it dashed on the rocks. Then I reached for yours. You started to cry.
Don't make a fuss, I pleaded.
But it was too late. Father came down from the back porch and into the reeds.
Do you know, Sam, I found your old boat? I keep it on my desk. Every evening I give the hull a quick polish, blow dust off the sails.
II
The grass at the bottom of the yard was high that summer. We crawled on our bellies and rolled in the mud. When the flies came out, we jumped buck-naked into the river and dove for stones. Ma said she couldn't see us at night on account of our skin being burnt black. Lucky for her, she said, that our hair was so white.
Whiter than snow or an angel or my best shooting marble. As white as Father's hair when he went away.
I liked it when he was gone. I liked sitting in his chair at the dining room table with Ma on my right and you on my left. But Ma took to her bed and you crawled in there with her.
While you slept, Ma talked of her courting days. The flowers and the dances and the moonlight drives. When she slept, too, I'd stand in her closet and let her dresses brush my cheek. Breathe in the dust.
III
Do you remember Ma watching us from the back porch, her thin body leaning into the railing as if the air were too much? We were extra noisy that fall. We played in the yard long after we got tired. We wanted so badly for her to smile.
You leapfrogged over me and I over you, croaking wildly all around the house. I stood at the back steps and you jumped on top.
Ribbet, we cried at the top of our lungs. Finally, Ma laughed.
IV
Postcards from Tulsa, Bayonne and parts north. Never a return address. Never more than a few words to prove you were alive. Ma would cry over every card. Lucky for us you wrote in pencil.
She kept asking when you'd come home and I always said, soon.
If you're still sending us postcards, we didn't get them.
V
I made a boat last night though my hands aren't so good anymore. Besides, the frogs were making a racket. But the boat is true. I think it'll go far.
Father's boats were fearless. A mast out of a matchstick. A sail of leaves. A vessel delicate enough for an elf.
Remember the day he gave us two? We ran to the river. Captain of the fleet, I called myself. I launched my boat and it dashed on the rocks. Then I reached for yours. You started to cry.
Don't make a fuss, I pleaded.
But it was too late. Father came down from the back porch and into the reeds.
Do you know, Sam, I found your old boat? I keep it on my desk. Every evening I give the hull a quick polish, blow dust off the sails.
II
The grass at the bottom of the yard was high that summer. We crawled on our bellies and rolled in the mud. When the flies came out, we jumped buck-naked into the river and dove for stones. Ma said she couldn't see us at night on account of our skin being burnt black. Lucky for her, she said, that our hair was so white.
Whiter than snow or an angel or my best shooting marble. As white as Father's hair when he went away.
I liked it when he was gone. I liked sitting in his chair at the dining room table with Ma on my right and you on my left. But Ma took to her bed and you crawled in there with her.
While you slept, Ma talked of her courting days. The flowers and the dances and the moonlight drives. When she slept, too, I'd stand in her closet and let her dresses brush my cheek. Breathe in the dust.
III
Do you remember Ma watching us from the back porch, her thin body leaning into the railing as if the air were too much? We were extra noisy that fall. We played in the yard long after we got tired. We wanted so badly for her to smile.
You leapfrogged over me and I over you, croaking wildly all around the house. I stood at the back steps and you jumped on top.
Ribbet, we cried at the top of our lungs. Finally, Ma laughed.
IV
Postcards from Tulsa, Bayonne and parts north. Never a return address. Never more than a few words to prove you were alive. Ma would cry over every card. Lucky for us you wrote in pencil.
She kept asking when you'd come home and I always said, soon.
If you're still sending us postcards, we didn't get them.
V
I made a boat last night though my hands aren't so good anymore. Besides, the frogs were making a racket. But the boat is true. I think it'll go far.
NUNUM
Blending Flash Fiction & Art
