Frogs

When I was little

Before my sister was born

Before I knew much of anything about pain and suffering

My grandfather convinced me that hail was

Little white frogs

Jumping around in the grass

Never mind where they fell from,

Look how they hop when they hit the ground!

His name was Kermit,

I trusted he knew all things about frogs

The big green ones that lived in the koi pond

And scattered when I tried to catch them in my net

Or little white ones that fell from the sky

And disappeared in the afternoon sun.

I’m much older now

I know much more about pain and suffering

I’ve read his memoir

Learned about the miracles,

The fishhook in the eye,

The shrapnel missing his exposed body

Killing his friends through an eye slit in the bunker wall.

No one in his family lived to be 46,

but this little, stubborn old man

Frail in body but strong in wit,

Nearly doubled that age,

Refusing to be a victim of fate time and again.

I heard it all again at that church in Poysippi

Listening to the pastor read the sermon

The little old man wrote

Because of course he planned his own funeral

Writing drafts up until he couldn’t hold the pen

I can’t help but wonder if the perfectionism and

procrastination combination

Is genetic

Like heart disease

Or a dry sense of humor.

I find myself looking out the window

With my little sister

Telling her about the little white frogs

Look how they hop when they hit the ground!

I can’t help but see that little old man

Smiling back through my reflection on the glass

And I wonder if he felt these moments

Were worth all that pain and suffering.

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Kylie Jorgensen

Kylie Jorgensen holds a BA in Writing and has been published in Portage Magazine and Bramble Literary Magazine.  Kylie writes poetry and creative non-fiction, capturing the snarky, raw, and sometimes beautiful bits of humanity throughout their work. They live in central Wisconsin with their chosen family and far too many plants.