I have an interior office. It’s carpeted. There are no windows, because it’s an interior space. Painted cement blocks on 4 walls. The outside doors are around the corner. They are double doors with one of those damp spaces in between where children wait for their parents in inclement weather.
A frog out of context is like a bird out of context. Freaky!
I went out to ask the evening custodian, a high schooler with earbuds and a strapped on vacuum backpack to please take the frog outside. I was late for an evening meeting. I felt silly asking this young man.
He seemed unaware I was speaking to him at first. With the vacuum on his back. The earbuds in his ears.
When he finally realized I might be speaking to him, he removed his earbuds. Perplexed. I wasn’t quite sure if he understood I was for real about the frog.
Last year, while living in Indonesia, the only seasonal marker was rainy season. One day I walked outside and found a dead frog, drowned, on the beautifully bricked walkway out of Banyanville, my neighborhood. This frog was not moving so I wasn’t sure it was dead at first. Upon further inspection, I found it covered with feasting bugs.
The fresh line between life and death is disturbing. Raw.
With that visceral memory, I shuddered. Not wanting to be the cause of this frog’s death. But also shivering at our lives intersecting.