But not all frogs are toads, my mother tells me.
We’re in the day room, next to the terrarium.
Frogs have teeth, she says.
Frogs can live 20 years, longer in the woods.
Today is a good day. She painted flowers by numbers, listened to a story, ate her lunch, learned some Fun Amphibian Facts.
There are other women in the day room, some in wheelchairs, most staring at nothing, like they’re watching invisible TV. Nurses cycle in and out.
Look, my mother says, pointing to the tank.
Two frogs. One drinks from a tiny swimming pool. The other sits in a rope hammock. There are artificial climbing vines, a mossy basking area, a hidden cave, even a lounge chair with a teeny cup holder. Their habitat looks nicer than my mother’s room, which she shares with Ethel Tamarkin, who’s recovering from hip surgery.
They shed their skin and eat it, my mother continues.
They ride bikes when we’re not looking.
They buy lipstick at the mall.
My mother reaches over and removes the lid, sticks her hand inside.
Don’t, I say, thinking about salmonella, hundreds of invisible, dangerous bacteria.
But she’s already removed a pale green frog with yellow eyes and gold spots on its back. It fits in the palm of her hand like a charm.
I look around. No nurses. No one is paying attention to us.
She’s brought the frog up to her lips. I’m horrified that she might kiss it, but instead she starts whispering in its ear.
Mom. Don’t. Stop, she says to the frog.
Words I’ve been repeating for the past year.
The frog looks bored, though maybe that’s his resting face.
They can scream, my mother says.
And I imagine what that sounds like—the high-pitched wail of the lost.
Beth Sherman’s writing has been published in over 100 literary journals and appears in Best Microfiction 2024. She’s a Pushcart, BSF, and BOTN nominee.