The Crossing
by Louisa Howerow
If he had been younger, he might have jumped over them and continued walking. If he had been in a hurry, he might have taken no notice of what was underfoot and crushed them. But he was neither young nor in a hurry.
He took this walk daily—from his daughter's home, down the wetland trail to the pond, and back again—but he had never seen such a sight. At first he thought it was a green shawl dropped across his path, except that this shawl was moving.Hundreds of frogs, each the size of his thumbnail, were emerging from the marshland on his right, scuttling across the path, and disappearing into the marshland on his left.
He knelt down and brought his face close to the ground. There was a marvelous order in the crossing; in spite of the fast pace, the queues stayed separated, and not one frog lagged behind or overtook another.
The woods smelled of rain and sunshine. The heartbeats trapped in the earth, in its creatures, in the trees themselves, could be heard in each leaf and each small frog.
A frog—bright grass-green with oval black spots, bulging eyes—hopped around his knee. He watched it for a while, hoping to follow it all the way across, but it melded into the stream of green. He picked another frog, only to lose sight of it too. His eyes watered from the effort.
It grew dark. The moon rose. There were fewer and fewer frogs on the path, as if the marshes were closing up for the night. He knew this was not quite true; there would be other smells, other sounds, hidden movements he might imagine but wouldn't be able to see.
When he was certain no more frogs would appear, he tried to stand, but his body seemed weighted to the earth and his hands were not strong enough to push him up.
Some time later, he saw bobbing lights. His daughter and her husband, carrying flashlights, called out to him. They lifted him to his feet and led him home. He had lived with them a long time, though he couldn't remember when they had taken him in or why.
The old man tried to tell them about the frogs, but because they had not seen what he had seen, they thought he was making up stories.
His daughter cried. Her husband said he couldn't stand by and watch his wife worry. They loved him, but other living arrangements had to be considered.
That night, the old man couldn't sleep. The window was open; the curtains rose and fell with the soft breeze. Somewhere in the woods, frogs, the color of a new spring day, were crossing without him.
Louisa Howerow has published creative non-fiction, short stories and poetry in journals, magazines and on the Internet. She has been nominated for two Canadian awards: the National Magazine Award in poetry and the Journey Prize for short story. Her latest short fiction appeared in Kaleidowhirl, Write Side Up and The Hiss Quarterly.