Bullfrogs

My growling aching limbs remind me of the days of crouching in the duck weed and muck searching for the biggest bullfrog in the pond. Careful footsteps through the water so the horrific squeak of a squished frog would never creep out, or the snapping turtle wouldn't catch our toes in her jaws and eat them like saltines.
I never knew how important a mosquito was or when the wrong time was to squish it. She is just feeding a family, just trying to survive. She's trying to feed the frogs, feed the ducks and the lily pads. And I thought it was funny to mush her on my arm.
And I'm trying to survive, but dinner tonight was air and Sunny D mixed with mythical animals who make their homes in little red and white spheres of light. Goldfish danced in my hair and flopped back into the tiny pool of sheets nearby.
Something inside is breaking like eggs cracked on heads, dripping through tresses of hair and down my neck. Taking a shower means letting it win. Letting go of the largest bullfrog in the pond, now in the bucket, looking at me with the wide eyes I adorn every day.