The Toad

​When I was little I caught a toad. I placed it in a jar with rocks and mud and leafs and twigs and put the cap back on. I gave my pet a name and in a pagan wedding/commitment, I promised the world I would take care of it, love it, feed it, and keep it safe… and I tried my best.

But a few days after my pledge, he (for it was no longer an “it” for me) stood still, stopped swimming and fell in a deep strange trance. I looked at the tiny body floating mid surfaced, mid submerged; I poked it softly with my pinky and moved it around not understanding what was happening. He was sleeping and not waking up.

I grew angry. Moved the jar harder, faster, I stirred the water and the mud, and the twigs, and the rocks… but he was still still. All covered in mud and twigs, but still. I took him out of the water and moved him around. I placed him on a napkin and cleaned him up, telling him that I was sorry, that I just wanted him to wake up… he didn’t move.

Silence suddenly fell upon me; the realization of nothingness hit me as I looked at the sleeping toad… For some strange reason, as if it were a punishment from mother earth, he died.

By my hand, he died.

I wonder still… Why does death enjoys playing with me?