Puddle Fish

I am the puddle that existed for 50 years at the end of my grandmother's driveway. I fill myself with steady water even in moments of drought. The old cat and red healer sit beside me waiting to fish out the frogs I invite to hop around in my muck.

I don’t mind that they do this and I enjoy their company. They are familiar with me and aren’t sure where the tiny fish and frogs came from that nestle themselves into the mud. How does a small fish get into a quite small body of water that is not connected to a larger body of water? I'm not sure and neither is the red healer or old cat.

Adults change their course before stepping into the puddle but children do not. As a child, I stepped into the puddle and today I do not.

It’s not that I don’t step in it because of choice. The puddle is no longer there, but even if it was I’m sure I would hesitate to step into it because stepping into would mean stepping into me.

As a child, I loved the feeling of wet shoes. I even liked the feeling of putting them back onto my feet after they dried in the sun on my grandmother's cracked sidewalk.

Now, my shoes have not been wet in years.

I once was the child who played in the deep puddle at the end of the driveway while dodging the tractors and other heavy equipment that used it as an outlet.

Today I am an adult who has not seen that puddle in years because it does not exist and neither does that version of me.

I wish I could step into that puddle and find myself in a magical place of my past. I would wonder how I got there just like I wondered how the tiny fish made their way into the puddle’s water.

I would feel the wetness in my shoes and give the red healer extra space so he did not nip at my ankles.

I would not grab the old cat by his scruff and force him to be held but I would join him in watching the frogs.

And I would not move for the incoming tractors and heavy equipment, because this time they would stop for me.