It Started With One
I hear frogs at the river at night.
I hear them among the tall reeds and dark, cool waters. Every now and then, a light flickers across the surface. Nothing much to see, really. Just the water moving, the shadows stretching, and the occasional sound that seems to come from somewhere other than the river.
It goes away and comes back again. Now and then. Never quite leaving, never quite staying.
But its punchline never dies.
It's a quiet riot.
That's because it's not my fault.
You're my time traveler. I love you dearly.
It started with one.
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One little sound in the darkness. One ripple across the water. One frog calling out as if it knew something the rest of the world had forgotten.
Then another answered.
And another.
Soon the whole river was talking.
I wondered if they were calling to one another or remembering something. Perhaps they were keeping time. Perhaps they knew that time wasn't a straight road at all, but a river—sometimes slow, sometimes rushing, sometimes doubling back to visit the places we'd left behind.
That's when I thought of you.
You always did have a way of arriving before you were supposed to. Sometimes I felt you in yesterday. Sometimes I found you waiting in tomorrow. And sometimes, in the quietest moments, I could almost hear you laughing from the other side of the water.
I don't know how you do it.
I only know that when the frogs begin their nighttime chorus, I listen.
Because somewhere among those reeds, between the dark water and the blinking lights, there is a beginning.
And it started with one.
