The frogs came down slowly at first, so you could see the surprise on each green-grey face as they crouch landed, before launching themselves towards whatever cover they could find. I watched a tiny one curled on our patio, seemingly frozen with fear. My mother, moving between fridge and hob, paused at the window.
‘It’s dead, I think.’
I ran for the back door, forgetting my shoes, forgetting myself; quickened by the sudden need to do something. Then the heavens opened. Soft thuds everywhere, the surprising dryness of them, a breath of warmth on right-angled limbs. I began to cry, while all around me the chorus of croaking bloomed like a long roll of thunder.
My mother appeared, sheltering me under Dad’s old golfing umbrella. She snuggled me close and told me how these storms came every few years, that I’d been too young the last time round to remember, but if I remembered anything from that year, it would probably be the day Dad was taken.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ she said, and we stood there for a minute, in the falling frogs, while I wondered where they came from and whether they would ever find their way back there.
No comments:
Post a Comment