Frog Paradise

My earliest memories date back to when I was a young child living in Tripoli. We lived in a house with a garden that, in my eyes, seemed like a paradise, flowers surrounding a small fishpond and vines on the walls of our little compound. On the beach, I spent hours digging holes in the warm sand and building sand castles. The sea, just over the dunes, whispered, "Come rinse off in the water." 
​One summer afternoon, I ventured toward the irrigation ditches next to our little house, intent on catching frogs. I wanted them for the little fish pond nestled in our yard, 

 I had no grander mission than that. I cupped them gently in my hands and carried them home, proud and full of delight. What followed, of course, was not what I expected. Within a few short weeks, our small compound had become something of a sanctuary—or an incursion, depending on your view. Frogs were everywhere. You could scarcely step outside the door without one leaping from underfoot, brushing against your ankle, or thumping softly onto the porch tiles. I remember it not as a nuisance, but as magic. Life then was full of quiet wonder, the kind that slips by unnoticed unless you're young. 
Libya left its mark on me, in the stories I recall, the memories my parents shared with me, the hospitality of the people, and the way the warm sun glowed on the water.
Now, years later, I live beside a pond. On summer nights, when the air is soft and the frogs begin their song, I stop and listen. The sound carries me back to that little house in Tripoli—to barefoot evenings, sun-baked sand, and a time when the world was wide and wonderfully enchanted. The frog song reminds me of those halcyon days—days that shaped the quiet corners of who I am.