Frogs Wear Dungarees-according to eleven year old me

A little frog smiles through the shine of fired clay.It’s blotchy patches of green from my eleven year old, inexperienced hands. My frog friend is a girl- I can tell from her black eyelashes-and she sits in floral dungarees,each flower a cluster of blobbed purple dots.For five years she has been sitting, smiling at me, resting on my desk. Though her big black eyes might seem vacant to some, she has seen plenty.She has watched me through the moves, the drama, the hours of work. My body growing from a lanky little girl to the beginning of a young woman.  She has seen my every emotion as I sit in my chair. Even all of my amazing performances as I belt out a bit of of Beyonce. And through all these years she has stuck by me with just books and paper and the odd misplaced hair pin as her friends.

Dust has collected. In each groove of her little hollow body, pockets of it lodge. As I stare into the seemingly empty eyes, I wonder why I chose a frog. I hate frogs-real frogs. They’re all slimy and gross and jumpy. But this little hollow creature looks so happy and cute, innocent.

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