It's Spring

    Two friends perched on a sun-warmed rock beside a babbling brook. One was a toad, his coarse, olive skin enjoying the new warmth of the sun. The other was a cricket, anxious to search for reemerging bugs but obliged to sit by his friend.

    A light breeze nearly tipped over the cricket, so he huddled nearer to the frog to be protected against the soft winds that sent the leaves singing. Also to stay out of view of mama birds desperate to feed their chirping children. Normally the cricket submerged himself in tall grass on days like these and only allowed himself freedom at night. But this year was different. He had a friend.

    A lazy one, he admitted. But still, he was a friend.

    As if tuning into the cricket’s thoughts, the toad peered at his friend sidelong with a look that said, “Really? I can’t enjoy a day in the sun?”

    The cricket held his stare but gave up and let his apology filter through his gaze. The toad, satisfied, let his eyelids drop in restored bliss. Together, the toad and the cricket relaxed their shoulders and submitted to the warm air.

    The cricket awoke to a splash. That noise was the first thing he noticed, then that the toad had disappeared. He squinted and looked for a dark spot swimming through the clear waters.

    Panicked, the cricket tried to chirp for his friend. But his scrapers wouldn’t work and his wings wouldn’t move. Hot pain seared his body at the attempt. Every junction of his limbs felt useless, stuck. He couldn’t even lift his legs, which appeared melted to the rock beneath him.

    He wasn’t just abandoned. He was fixed to a stone pan, destined to end his life as a chapuline, a Mexican dish licked up by some passing vertebrae on a passing thought. 

    Something akin to the heat flushed his body. It was rage, he realized. He had been lonely, sure, but that uncharacteristic desire for companionship- from a toad, a predator, no less- that weakness would be the end of him. And he had no one to blame but himself.

    The sun now crested its highest and brightest point in the sky. Its rays flared with full power, each second of its heat turning the cricket to a crisp. He closed his eyes. Once more, he submitted to the sweltering heat, and it would be his last time.

    Ribbit. The cricket hazily registered a sound. Ribbit. So this was it. The afterlife. Had he made it to hell, he wondered, where his betrayer would forever torment him? Ribbit. If that was the case, he figured it was best to keep his eyes closed and ignore his punishment for as long as hell would permit. Surely the underground went easy on newlydeads.

    Blissful silence followed his resolution. The cricket tried to settle back into unconsciousness, but the nagging feeling that he was being watched unsettled him. He decided to see for himself. He willed his lids to lift. Only one cracked open, leaving him a space just large enough to peep through. The cricket was surprised at what he saw. From the meager sunlight that filtered in from behind him, he could make out the brook beneath him where two large eyes poked out. They stared patiently. Dumbfounded, the cricket stared back.

    So it wasn’t death that had taken him. Just sleep. At least his skin had been reduced to a husk of dead nerves so that he couldn’t feel his disability. Not that he needed a reminder, with one eye barely pulled open and all.

    The toad just stared and stared with his fat, indignant eyes while the sun went to hide behind the horizon like the coward it was. If it had stayed where he could see it, the cricket felt that his rage would have been enough to obliterate it. He was exhausted and agitated and nearly dead and all this toad could do was watch. The cricket did his best to glare at him with his one functioning eye.

    Giving up, the toad lurched out of the water in a graceful leap and returned to his spot beside the cricket. Startled, the cricket felt he would have fallen right into the water if he had control over his limbs. When his companion didn’t inch closer like before, the toad tipped his chubby belly away and then rocked forward, landing with a wet slap on the stone. Now he sat close enough that the cricket could almost feel the weight of the toad next to him. He half expected the toad to open his mouth and devour him in one snap of his tongue.

    The cricket trembled in anticipation with what little strength he had left. The toad watched the reeds shiver in regards to the oncoming cold. The cricket could make out the shrill of other crickets surfacing in the distance. No one dared approached what looked like a predator and his dinner.

    When darkness fully pervaded their surroundings, the toad rose and turned in a slow, ominous motion. Unable to shut his eyelid, the cricket was forced to watch as the toad opened his mouth.

    “It’s the first day of spring,” the toad ribbited. 

    The cricket was confused. And I’m starting it off with a delicious meal, he waited for the toad to elaborate. Instead, his companion suddenly flung himself into the water and swam away.

    The cricket contemplated the interaction he just had. Was the announcement of spring the toad’s way of apologizing? Remembering the warm breeze, the revived bird calls, and the appearance of baby flower shoots, he realized it was spring. No longer would the dreary frosts of winter’s talents plague his hibernation. In fact, he couldn’t even remember waking up from his slumber. His first memories began today. And last memories, he recognized sadly.

    A blast of cold air came in and tipped the cricket over, his legs ripping from their sockets. The cricket no longer saw, no longer thought. He simply was. And it was spring.