The Toads at Kathleen Lake

.



There was a time when I communed with toads. Left alone on the dock at Kathleen Lake, I created a silent eyeing language, and they were peaceful with me, lay stretched out on the water, or scrunched on the top of a post, not flinching at the touch of small hands. Mom would be up in the cabin, smoking cigarettes, mixing up a goopy egg filling for the sloppy sandwiches she’d force me to eat. I’d sit there for an hour, gagging down bites, wishing to be back with my toads. I loved the cool bumpy toad skin, and the way the soft flesh hung like bread dough over the sides of my palm. I loved the delicate pulse of the tiny heartbeat, the long stare that seemed not to see me, allowed me to feel invisible, silent, a ghost in the presence of nature. There were lily pads there, but the toads were too heavy to rest on them, and they floated among them instead, fat bodies submersed, eyes and snouts just breaking the surface. The flowers of those lilies, if they really were lilies, were yellow, waxy, vaguely redolent of skunk, and a source of fascination for me. I’d pluck those heads from their stems and pull them apart, checking every cross section, rubbing their thick petals, sniffing that strange smell. I used to wade slowly through them, feel the push of cool water on my skin, trying to move seamlessly, without a ripple, my arms drifting on the surface, fingers splayed and dangling like the legs of the floating toads.



.