fathers of daughters are most terrified of people like themselves |
“don’t kiss frogs,” father used to say scepter in hand weight bending his brow, “they’ll hop to your room with just the one thought and turn your bed green with slime.” mother would just smile a vague smile and bend to place another stitch. the walls filled with examples of her work in every frog color greens and reds and yellows embroidered frogs, tapestries of frogs, the stone frog sculpture she’d carved when I was small to guard the palace door. I never played in the garden. father never gave me a golden ball. it rested in a crystal box on mother’s bedside table. we had a lily pond where frogs came to sing at night. I could see it from the guard house where I’d go to give out kisses to the gardener’s son tall, strong, handsome, brave. he brought me gifts to fish from his pocket pure green stones and apricots, rose petals and snails. once upon a summer’s morning he brought me a frog and I knew he was the one we pledged our fidelity in between kisses. father raged and swore and hopped so high we didn’t need to duck, but mother kissed him and he was still. my wedding dress was pure red with green frogs hopping around the hem, and all my cousins came. the chapel rang with their croaking. line count: 51 |