Praxis

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He brought the dead frog to the cabin on the first day of the new school year. It was a beautiful September morning and we’d assembled for northing.

He told us that he wanted to cut its heart out. Queasy, I assumed this was grisly showboating - each increasingly shrill word chosen to get adult attention - so I ducked inside to finish the coffee, pouring it for those who wanted it.

She knew It wasn’t grisly showboating and that he was serious. Certainly serious enough for her to push. She recognised what this was so knelt beside him as he placed the green headless corpse on a large flat stone, stomach facing up. He escalated.

The other kids pushed through the adults to the stone’s edge and spoke excitedly in hushed tones - they knew him, so were sure he was really going to do it.

For me this felt big. A point of inflection, of praxis. One of those moments that was going to be remembered with a before and an after. She got a sharp knife from the lockbox, slid it from its toughened fluorescent scabbard and passed it to him. He pressed the tip at an angle precisely where she indicated.

Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, he seemed to think better of his impromptu post mortem. He paused, caught between wonder and doubt, and froze. She knew this was actually the moment to push; knew that if she could get him over the line here, this would follow him down through the ages. He never would, but he’d thank her for it. She gently pushed, with all the love and respect in the world.

A frog’s heart is about the size of a child’s thumbnail, and if this one was typical, coal black. He gently removed it and placed it on the stone alongside the cavity. She took a photograph.