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It started with a splash.

Then a yelp.

Then, "I ALMOST GOT IT—NOOOO!"

I looked up from the porch to see Lily standing at the edge of the pond just past the trees, ankle-deep in the muddy water, arms flailing like she was about to take flight. Her hair clung to her forehead, and her shorts were completely soaked.

"What are you doing?" I called, already halfway to a laugh.

"Frog!" she shouted, spinning around to face me. "I saw one! I swear!"

I got up and jogged over, grinning. "You're not gonna catch anything stomping around like a baby elephant."

"I was being stealthy," she insisted, hands on her hips.

"You were being loud."

"I almost had him!"

I knelt beside her, scanning the bank. "You want help from a professional?"

She looked skeptical. "You?"

"Yep," I said, lowering my voice like I was letting her in on a secret. "Frog champ of Folkston, Georgia. Two summers undefeated. Ask Abby."

Lily narrowed her eyes like she didn't quite believe me.

"Step one," I said, crouching lower, "you stop stomping around like it's a parade. Frogs don't like thunder feet."

She knelt next to me.

"Step two," I whispered. "You listen. You don't move. You wait."

We stayed quiet for a few seconds. A breeze stirred the reeds. A dragonfly buzzed by.

Then—plop.

A little green head bobbed just above the waterline, blinking slowly.

"There," I whispered.

Lily's eyes widened like she'd just spotted treasure.

"Don't go grabbing for it," I said. "You gotta go slow. One hand behind it, the other in front. Like this—"

With one smooth motion, I scooped it gently into my hands.

Lily gasped. "YOU GOT IT!"

I held the frog up like a tiny prize. It blinked at me with the usual froggy indifference.

"Folkston skills," I said with a grin.

Lily bounced in place. "Can I hold him?!"

"Careful," I warned, handing him over. "He's a jumper."

She cradled him like he was made of gold. "What should we name him?"

She paused thoughtfully for about two seconds before blurting, "Sir Hopsalot."

I burst out laughing. "You know I had a frog named that back in Georgia, right?"

"Seriously?"

"Dead serious."

"Well, now he lives on!" she said proudly. "Because he's noble. And he has powerful leg muscles."

We walked a little closer to the pond, the afternoon sun painting the water in patches of gold. Lily pads dotted the surface like tiny green boats.

"This is where he belongs," I said softly. "You can't keep him, you know."

"I know," Lily said, kneeling on a rock near the bank. She cupped her hands a little tighter. "But just for a minute, can I pretend he's my pet?"

"Sure," I said, sitting beside her. "Just don't kiss him. I've seen enough weird movies."

She giggled, then got quiet.

Another frog croaked in the distance. The pond rippled gently. The world, for a second, felt still.

"Do you miss it?" Lily asked.

"Folkston?"

She nodded.

I paused. "Sometimes. Mostly the little things. Fireflies. Spanish moss. The way the air smelled after it rained."

"And the frogs," she added.

I smiled. "Yeah. And the frogs."

We sat there a while, watching the water and letting the silence stretch out in a comfortable way.

Eventually, Lily held her hands over the pond and opened them.

Sir Hopsalot didn't hesitate. He leapt into the water with a soft plop and vanished beneath a lily pad.

"Goodbye, brave knight," Lily whispered with a dramatic sigh.

Then she leaned against me.

"I'm glad you showed me how to catch him."

I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. "Anytime, Lily Pad."

She groaned. "Ugh. No frog puns."

"No promises."

Lunch was waiting on the picnic table when we got back — grilled cheese sandwiches, watermelon, and lemonade so cold the pitcher was sweating.

I dropped into my seat and grabbed a sandwich, still grinning from the frog hunt.

"You shoulda seen it," I said, already slipping into that old rhythm without thinking. "Lil' thing just sat there on that lily pad like he owned the whole dang pond. Didn't even flinch when I got close."

Dad looked over with a smile. "Caught him in one try, huh?"

"Shoot, back home I used to catch five, six frogs in one evenin'. We had so many of 'em hoppin' round near the swamp, you'd think the ground was breathin'."

Lily looked curious. "You ate them too?"

"Sure did," I said with a laugh. "We had frog legs for dinner more times than I can count. Papa used to say it tasted like chicken, but I always thought it tasted like pond water with a crunch. Mama—my birth mom—she never did like makin' 'em, but Papa? He'd fry 'em up like it was Sunday supper."

There was a pause. I took a bite of my sandwich and leaned back in the chair.

"Ain't sayin' I miss eatin' frogs or nothin', but... sometimes I do miss the sound of 'em croakin' at night. That, and the smell of rain hittin' the dirt after a long hot day. Kinda sticks with ya."

Mom glanced over, amused. "You're talking like you just stepped off a front porch in Georgia."

I blinked, realizing what I'd just said.

"Oops," I muttered, blushing. "Guess it snuck back in."

Lily giggled. "I like when you talk like that. It's funny."

I smiled, a little sheepish. "It's just how I used to sound, that's all. Sometimes it kinda... comes out when I ain't thinkin'."

No one teased me. No one made it weird. They just let me be me — Georgia drawl and all.

I cleared my throat, hoping no one noticed how thick my accent had gotten. Maybe if I just drank some more lemonade, it'd wash the Georgia out of my mouth.

Didn't help.

"Anyway," I said, trying to sound more normal, "frog catching's a lot easier when you're not yelling like a banshee."

Dad smirked but didn't say anything. Lily, of course, was still grinning at me like I'd grown a second head.

I looked down at my plate, quietly chewing. Talking like I used to was kinda embarrassing. It was like my past kept sneaking out when I wasn't paying attention — slipping through cracks I thought I'd sealed.

But nobody teased me.

And somehow, that made it a little less embarrassing... and a little more okay.

After lunch, I wandered out to the porch with a glass of lemonade and sank into the creaky old rocking chair. The sun was high now, the kind of sticky summer heat that made everything move slower — even your thoughts. Mom came out a moment later and sat beside me, a small smile on her face like she'd been waiting for this all day.

For a while, we didn't say much. Just rocked gently, the wood groaning beneath us, the cicadas humming like a lazy orchestra.

"You okay?" Mom asked softly.

I nodded. "Yeah. Just thinkin'."

"About?"

I took a sip of lemonade. "Back in Georgia... my Papa used to teach me how to whittle."

She turned to look at me, eyebrows raised. "Whittle?"

I smiled, a little sheepish. "Yeah. Like, takin' a pocketknife to a stick and carvin' somethin'. He was real good at it. Made birds, lil' foxes, once even a whole train. I never got that good, but I made a gator once."

Mom chuckled. "Sounds like something worth keeping."

"I gave it to Mama," I said, then quickly added, "She kept it on the kitchen shelf for a long time."

There was a pause.

"That's really special," Mom said, her voice soft but steady. "Would you ever want to do it again? Carve something?"

I looked down at the porch railing, at the way the old paint flaked off like dried petals. "I dunno. I haven't touched a knife like that in years. Papa always said I had steady hands, though. Said I was patient."

She smiled. "I think you are. And I'd love to see what you make."

That made something warm rise up in my chest.

"Maybe I'll carve somethin' again," I said, the words slow and easy — the kind that carried just a hint of Georgia twang when I wasn't paying attention.

And Mom didn't say anything about the way I said it. She just kept smiling, like she was proud of me for something I hadn't even done yet.

Just as I was about to sip the last of my lemonade, the screen door creaked open behind us.

"I heard you talking about whittling!" Lily called out as she stepped onto the porch, her eyes wide with excitement. "You really know how to do that?"

I turned to her, caught a little off guard, but smiling anyway. "Well, I ain't exactly a pro or nothin', but yeah. I can do a lil' somethin' with the right piece o' wood."

Lily beamed. "Can I watch? Do you need special wood or something?"

I tilted my head, thinking. "Somethin' soft 'nough to carve, not too dry. Maybe a nice branch or chunk from the yard."

"I'll find one!" she declared, already spinning around toward the steps. "I'm gonna find the perfect piece!"

I laughed as she darted off into the yard like she was on a treasure hunt. Mom looked over at me with an amused smile.

"She's determined."

I nodded. "She sure is. And I guess that means I'm whittlin' again."

Mom and I sat there watching as Lily darted across the yard like a hound on the trail of something priceless.

"She's takin' this mighty serious," I said with a quiet laugh, resting my arms on the porch rail.

Mom smiled, her chin in her hand. "She just wants to be part of your world. I think she really looks up to you."

That hit me a little deeper than I expected. I glanced back out at Lily, who was now crouched near a bush, poking at something with a stick she'd already rejected.

"Funny," I said softly. "Back in Georgia, I used to be the little one watchin' Papa with wide eyes. I thought he could carve magic."

"Sounds like you were pretty close," Mom said gently.

I nodded. "We were. He taught me how to hold the blade right, how to listen to the wood. Said it'd tell me what it wanted to be."

Mom looked at me for a long moment. "Sounds like he gave you more than just a skill."

I swallowed. "Yeah. He did."

Out in the yard, Lily suddenly held something over her head like a trophy.

"I GOT ONE!" she shouted. "It's smooth and not cracky!"

I chuckled. "Well, that's half the battle."

"Bring it here, baby girl," Mom called, standing to meet her.

Lily raced up the steps, proudly holding out her crooked little branch. "Is it good?"

I took it from her hands, turning it over thoughtfully. "Yeah," I said, my accent soft and familiar again, "I reckon this'll do just fine."

"Be right back," I said, brushing my hands off on my shorts as I stood. "Gotta grab my knife."

Mom raised an eyebrow. "You have a knife?"

I grinned. "Don't worry, it ain't for stabbin'—it's for whittlin'. Same one Papa gave me when I was little."

I slipped inside and headed to my room, opening the top drawer of my desk where I kept it wrapped in an old handkerchief. The handle was a little worn now, the metal dulled from years of use and memory. Still sharp, though. Still good.

As I turned to head back, I paused in the hallway.

"...her accent sounds kinda silly," Lily was saying in that not-so-quiet kid whisper. "Like she's pretendin' to be someone else."

I hesitated.

Then I heard Mom chuckle softly. "It's not pretend, honey. It's part of where she's from."

"But why does it come and go?"

"Sometimes when we feel something strong—like remembering someone we loved or doing something special—it just comes out. Doesn't mean it's silly."

I waited a beat before heading back outside, knife in hand, pretending I hadn't heard a thing. The sun was warmer now, glinting off the porch rail. Lily looked up at me like nothing had happened.

"All right," I said, flipping the blade open with a practiced flick. "Let's make something pretty."

I sat down on the porch step, turning the small block of wood in my hands. It was light, smooth in spots, rough in others—something with potential.

Lily bounced over and sat beside me, eyes wide. "Are you really gonna carve something?"

"Yeah," I said, quieter this time. "Figure I might as well."

I didn't say much else. Just kept my hands moving—slow, steady strokes, letting the knife do the work. The air was warm, but the porch boards were cool under my legs. Normally I'd be chatting, maybe tossing in a few of my old sayings. But this time... I didn't feel like it.

Not after what I'd heard.

Lily didn't know I'd been close enough to catch her words. That my accent sounded silly. That I sounded like I was pretending. She didn't mean it to hurt, I was sure of that. But still... it stung.

"You're really good at that," Lily said after a minute, watching the curls of wood fall into a little pile beside me.

"Thanks."

"What are you making?"

"Not sure yet."

She leaned closer, curious. "Maybe a frog?"

I gave a faint smile, still not looking up. "Maybe."

For now, I just let the sound of carving fill the space between us—sharp, soft, familiar. And even though my voice had quieted down, my hands still remembered everything Papa taught me.

I whittled and whittled, tongue poking out slightly the way I always did when I was focused. The wood was starting to take shape—round eyes, wide mouth, little limbs curled up close.

It did kind of look like a frog... but not just any frog.

By the time I rounded out the mouth and added two little bumps for eyes, I realized what I was making.

Kermit.

A very lopsided, definitely homemade, whittled version of Kermit the Frog.

Mom leaned in from her chair, tilting her head just enough to get a better look. Her face lit up.

And then, from her phone speaker, soft and familiar:

♫ "Why are there so many... songs about rainbows..." ♫

I looked up and burst out laughing. "Seriously, Mom?"

She just grinned and kept the music playing.

Lily squinted at the carving. "Wait... is that who I think it is?"

I held up the little wooden frog proudly. "Say hello to Kermit."

She giggled. "He's kinda cute. Even if his eyes are crooked."

"Hey, he's got character."

Mom chuckled, swaying gently in her chair as the music continued.

And just like that, the moment softened. Whatever I'd overheard earlier... it didn't seem so heavy now. Not when I was surrounded by laughter, music, and memories that still lived in my hands.

Later that night, I sat cross-legged on my bed, the soft whirr of the ceiling fan spinning above me in lazy circles. Outside, the wind tapped gently against the glass, just enough to remind me the world was still moving, even if I wasn't. My fingers curled around the little wooden frog—Kermit. His lopsided eyes, carved with quiet patience, looked up at me like he knew a joke I hadn't heard yet.

I rubbed my thumb slowly across his rough edges, tracing the tiny grooves and imperfections. Something about the shape, the way the wood caught the dim light from my bedside lamp, it tugged at something deep. Deeper than memory. Deeper than anything I could put into words.

Something about it pulled me back. Way back.
Back to Georgia.

Years Ago – Folkston, Georgia
Front Porch, Late Evening

The porch creaked beneath us, that familiar old song it always sang when someone moved too quickly or shifted their weight the wrong way. But Papa's chair never creaked like that. His had a rhythm to it. A slow, steady back-and-forth that sounded like it belonged to the house itself.

He was carving again. A block of pine rested in his calloused hands, and the blade of his pocketknife danced through it with the soft, steady sound of practiced grace. Shh—shh—shhh. The curls of wood dropped in little spirals to the floorboards, gathering around his boots like straw from some unseen harvest.

I sat at his feet, legs pulled to my chest, chin balanced on my knees. I couldn't have been more than seven or eight. Maybe younger. The porch was warm beneath me, still holding the heat from the long summer day. The scent of sunbaked pine, dirt, and sweat mixed with the sweetness of honeysuckle vines that crawled up the railing.

The night air was thick and soft, buzzing with cicadas that cried out from the trees like they had something important to say. Frogs croaked down by the pond, lazy and low, answering each other like old friends catching up after supper. Fireflies blinked in and out of the tall grass, little bursts of gold floating just out of reach. I used to think they were stars that got tired of being so far away.

"You always gotta let the wood tell you what it wants to be," Papa said, not looking up from his work. His voice was low and gravelly, like gravel rolled through warm syrup. It wasn't loud, but it carried—straight into your bones if you let it.

"Ain't just about cuttin'. It's 'bout listenin'."

I nodded. I didn't really understand, not yet. But I wanted to. I wanted to so bad. To hear the wood the way he did. To know what to carve, how to shape it, how to bring something to life from nothing.

He paused and looked down at me with that crooked smile of his, a speck of sawdust stuck in his beard. "One day, you'll be better at this than me. Mark my words."

From behind us, the screen door groaned as it swung open. Mama stood there, arms folded gently across her chest, her apron still tied from the peach cobbler she'd just pulled from the oven. A warm light from the kitchen spilled out around her, turning her hair to gold and the porch into something holy. She didn't say anything. Just watched us with that little smile—the one that meant her heart was full.

I remember something she said once, when she didn't know I was listening:
"That child worships the ground you walk on."

She wasn't wrong. I did.
Still do.

The smell of fresh-cut wood hung in the air like incense, mixed with the faint sweetness of tobacco and the floral ghosts of honeysuckle. A lightning bug hovered close, its light pulsing just inches from my fingers. I reached out slowly—but it blinked away before I could catch it.

Papa stopped carving and turned the piece in his hands a few times, like he was checking to see if it had become what it was meant to be. Then he handed it down to me.

It was a tiny turtle. Smooth shell. Round eyes. A little wobbly on one side, but perfect to me.

"For luck," he said, simply.

I didn't say anything. I just held it tight in my hand like it might slip through if I let go, like I could trap the whole moment inside it.

That turtle—
I think I still have it. Somewhere. Maybe buried in the bottom of a drawer, tangled up in old jewelry and forgotten ticket stubs. Maybe in the keepsake box under my bed. But the memory of that night?

That one stuck better than anything I ever carved.

Present Day

I blinked away the warmth that gathered in my eyes and gently set Kermit on my nightstand, next to my clock and the little turtle that somehow turned up again last winter while I was cleaning out boxes from the move. Both carvings sat side by side—Papa's and mine. His first, mine last.

The memory faded, the porch lights dimmed in my mind, and Georgia fell silent again.
But the feeling stayed.

Papa was still with me.
In the way I held a blade.
In every frog I ever chased through the swampy grass.
In the quiet hush of listening, not just carving.
In the moments I still sat with wood in my lap and let it tell me what it wanted to be.

And sometimes...
If I listened real close—
I could still hear his knife slicing through the pine.
Still hear him say:

"Listen first, cut second. That's how you make something that lasts."

And maybe I was still trying.