She took his hand, flipped it over, and placed a rock in his palm.
“What the hell are you doing!” he said. She ignored him. Held his hand for a moment then sat back on her haunches. Finally, she looked at him. She seemed..determined.
“It’s a rock” she said.
” I can see it’s a damned rock.” he moved to stand, she pushed her fingertip into his forehead, stopping him from being able to get up. He glared, but sat back again.
” It’s a rock, but you want it to be a frog, you want it to be a frog soo bad, you keep looking at it..staring at it with all your might, trying to make it turn into a frog.
You stare soo hard, you convince yourself that it’s starting to look like a frog, might even feel like it’s turning green…but, even with all your power, all your effort, it’s still..STILL just a rock.
Other people come by, they tell you it’s a rock. You tell them, stubbornly, that it’s a frog. They look at you, look at your rock, and might even agree with you, because you want it soo badly, but…it’s still, STILL just a rock.
Then one day a child comes by, sees you, asks you what you are doing, you say ‘ I’m holding a frog. ‘ the child laughs hysterically and says ‘No, it’s not mister, it’s a rock!’
You realize, it’s true. Its always been true. It’s just a damned rock, even if you really, really want it to be something else.
You wonder how much time you’ve wasted, waiting for a rock to become a frog. You put the rock down, and realize something very strange, that you missed.”
He waited a beat, but she was waiting too, for him, to ask.
He sighed. “What did I miss?”
She smiled. It was the smile of someone, seeing someone else, finally listening, instead of not listening.
She gestured to his shoulder. “You missed the real frog sitting on your shoulder.”
He looked and, sure enough, there was a frog..right there…all this time.
He glanced back up, but she had already walked away.
“Typical” he muttered without heat, a small smile starting its process of growing into a big one.