Goddess of the Tadpoles
By P. J. Burns

     Kneeling by the side of the creek, I felt like their god. I must have seemed that way to them, too; all of the fat little tadpoles swimming lazily around and then scattering madly as I plunged my small child's hang into their midst, their happy home.

     Only minutes from my house, I felt like I was completely - magically - cut off from my third grade life. With the yellow summer sun sliding through the tree branches and falling in fragmented shards onto the rough, brown dirt in front of me, I could have been anyone - could have been anywhere. I was an eight year old kid, hidden from the world by a hundred trees, but I didn't have to be.

     I could be the Goddess of the Tadpoles.

     I frequented the creek for many reasons; because I couldn't go much farther from the house on my own; it was cooler than being out in the sun; and I was doing something no one else was. None of the other kids cares about the creek or its inhabitants, so they were all mine - my aquatic subjects - and I, their loyal goddess.

     The side of the creek was littered with discarded pieces of someone else's history, but what I remember most are the stale, then moldy, and then rock-hard bits of my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from my daily journeys to the water's edge. I always brought one with me and most of it ended up forgotten when I abandoned it to investigate some goings-on among my tailed friends.

     Wading shin-deep into the lukewarm water, I watched with some satisfaction as they frantically searched for cover from the terrifying yellow-haired monster - they hadn't yet recognized me as their goddess. Holding my breath and standing as still as I could manage, I waited until they calmed down enough to venture out from their leafy hiding places to identify me for who I was. And then I would talk to them in a hushed, sing-song voice, praising their cuteness, telling them how proud of them I was. They swarmed around my ankles in worship; I imagined they must be impressed with me, this godlike creature speaking in another language, towering over them, busying herself with such little beings.

     After giving them their daily pep-talk, I would return happily to the edge of the water to munch on the remaining bits of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, that is to say the parts that weren't mired in mud and dirt. I made offerings of sandwich to my little friends, but they never seemed to be hungry; always, when I returned the next day, the bits of bread would not longer be floating. They must have saved them for later - for a feast in honor of their glorious leader, perhaps.

* * * *

     The sky was dark gray and the wind was screaming in my ears, but I was down at the creek as usual because no one had told me not to go. (This could have been due to the fact that the rest of the house was asleep.) I was worried about my swimming subjects - what would happen to them if their little creek became flooded? Could they swim in such deep water? I left the peanut butter and jelly sandwich at home in favor of two large glass jars to capture the tadpoles in, to keep them safe until the storm passed.

     My mother, the biggest animal lover I know, was not pleased when I came home with two full jars brimming with excited tadpoles.

     "Just what do you think you're doing?" she asked, hands on hips.

     But I wasn't worried. It didn't matter the creature, my mother wouldn't be able to turn them away.

     "It's storming, Ma," I told her, setting the jars on the kitchen counter. "They're going to drown."

     "They're tadpoles," she said, with a hint of amusement in her voice. Softening, she told me that it was okay, she was glad I was concerned about them.

     Then she told me that I couldn't keep them in the house.
I was devastated. What good was it to save them if I was going to have to leave them outside?

     "But Ma! If I leave them outside they'll drown!"

     She put her foot down. "I don't want frogs in the house. Go take them outside."

     What? Was she crazy? They weren't frogs. They were tadpoles. I pointed this out.

    "Just what do you think tadpoles are?" she asked. "They grow up to be frogs."

     "They don't!" I told her. "They're always there at the beginning of the summer and then at the end they just…leave. Go somewhere else while I'm in-" I didn't want to give away my Goddess-status. But I still didn't understand what she was talking about - they weren't frogs. Frogs were big and hopped around and made ribbit-noises outside of my window at night. My tadpoles just swam around and around in the creek until I began school.

     My mom told me I could keep them in the shed out back, but I had to take them back to the pond as soon as the weather improved. I quietly followed her instructions, still amazed that she could confuse my little tadpoles with big ugly frogs.

     I named them all. Roberto was the first to morph into a frog; I came out back one morning to find all of the little tadpoles staring in quiet amazement at him - he seemed equally astonished at what he'd become. I hurried in and told my mom that there was a frog in with the tadpoles; she laughed and told me again that it was okay, that that's what happened to tadpoles when they grew up.

     I delivered them back to the pond the same day, after much nagging from my mother. As I let them free in the water and watched Roberto hop away, I realized that, as much as I wanted to, I didn't know everything; the world was full of things for me to learn and discover.

P. J. Burns has been a student at Harford Community College since moving to the county from San Diego, CA, in December 2002. This essay was written for Creative Writing I.