The king and the frog
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
1991, Cotabato City
He walked along side of the stream driving two frogs into the water in the process.
“They won’t go far,” he whispered almost to himself trying to convince it was just a great pretension of the amphibians.
They kicked up the mud as to deceive and blind my father as to their real hiding place.
My father waited a few moments allowing the mud to settle. Then near the shore of the pond, he saw a suspicious lump and no doubt that the frog has doubled his track to mislead him. From the lump of mud two bulging eyes appeared. He quietly slipped his hands into the mud and with quick motion he grasped the mud and the frog was in his.
I watched with interest my father’s movements while in pursuit of my frog. His plan of action was simple: slow, deliberate movement, with frequent and long pauses whenever the prey showed signs of alarm, no violent motion until the game was within reach; then like a cat, a sudden stroke with a curved paw and extended nails seldom failed to grapple or hook the victim.
Why my father was there near the pond to catch some frogs blamed it to my Biology class. He skipped his lunch to seize a frog for my experiment. Then, to eliminate any situation that would send him again to the pond, he taught me how to keep my frog.
He told me to put my frog in a high container. It can cling to any surfaces and might “wall jump” out unless I cover it with a breathable lid. And to keep it like a deer, I shone a bright light over it.
But he knew that I know I can’t keep my frog for too long. I have to turn it over to my Biology Class.
Just like him, he can’t be with us forever. We have to let him go. He left us in 2004.
Long how pondered over things, my father did not only caught a frog for my class project, he shown me how to become a parent for he knew I will be one.
He taught me sacrifice. He taught me patience. He taught me not to be selfish. He taught me to vial memories and to let go.
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