Frog Prince

There is a tiny green frog by my bedside, jewel-encrusted and golden, a tiny crown on his head. I forget to see him most of the time, habituated by appearance. Such a small piece of decoration. I was never much for trinkets.

Yet I still remember the day I bought him. Cold, slushy Stockholm, with snow inside my shoes, with snow inside my bones, and this tiny piece of magic touched my heart. I could not afford him, even then. I have been on the verge of poverty for so long I cannot remember what it is like to not consider coins. Still, I could not resist him. Within his body, he now carries notes, words of me long ago.

Some nights, I rediscover those notes, those words, those unassuming jewels. Some nights it's enough just to see him. I remember the jump. I remember slushy winters and the desire to leave, the burning resolve. He shines as brightly now; I am grateful.

The winter winds blew cold tonight. You can no longer shelter me, from their chill. Geography separates us. Reality, separates us.It was a slap in the face, how quickly I was replaced. I take it. I just wrap my jacket a little tighter.

Back on solid ground, I love that the wind blows not nearly as hard, on the west village streets I call home.