When I was real young—my hair a short, blonde mess of pearls—my grandpa was the best at catching frogs. It was one of the only things that made him smile, crouchin' in the mud with his truckers hat over his bald spot and snatchin’ frogs from thin air and givin' them to me. Usually I'd hold them for awhile in my hands, peering close with my blue eyes until they hopped to the ground and disappeared. I kept one once, threw it in a red cardboard box, intending take it home to my parents and demand they let me keep it.

After waking up the next day, I found the frog underneath a flap of the box, stuck to a piece of clear tape and dead. His body was flat and spread out cartoonishly, like he'd been run over by a car. I imagined dying—it didn't matter how—my body just layin' there on the ground, sprawled and flatter than flat.

I guess by the time you met my grandpa, we were too old to go catchin' frogs.

- MJ