A frog among goldfish.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The fruity and sticky juices from the popsicle flow down my arm and drop to the floor, making the little puddle of sweetness a lake of heaven for the soon-to-arrive ants.

“Gran-gran, my popsicle is melting! How much longer do I have to wait before the cookies are ready?!” I yell.

“Just a while longer, my boy” rang her sweet voice from the kitchen.

A few minutes pass by, and my popsicle- once a proud frozen statue was now a crooked and droopy mess. I ran into the kitchen to grab some paper towels but was instantly battered by a weird scent coming from the old dingy oven in the corner.

Curiously, I asked “Uh gran-gran, are these cookies another new invention of yours? They smell a little off from the ones that you usually make..”

I hear a soft chuckle, followed by “quite an observant boy aren’t ya? This grandmother of yours substituted orange juice for the milk! I figured our cookie-popsicle sandwiches could use some more pop in flavour, wouldn’t you agree?”

I let an awkward chuckle escape my mouth before mumbling “why, yes of course grandmother!” sarcastically.

I dash out of there immediately, before she could add a snarky remark. In the span of our little conversation, the smell in the kitchen had gotten ten times stronger, and not in a pleasant way.

Soon I find myself craving the numbness of the glaring summer heat. Strangely, despite the discomfort of the heat, the burning sensation provides me comfort. I settled down on the porch, where I was blinded by the huge burning orb of a sun.

It’s a reminder of summer.

A time where I can escape all the inner demons fueled by the pressure of studies, careers and friends.

A time where I am sent to gran-gran’s home- a place of liberation. Somewhere I can lie on the couch all day and ponder, a place that gives me the freedom to express myself.

Truthfully what makes my summers unforgettable isn’t solely the relaxation, that's only part of it. It’s my grandmother, Freida.

She’d never been the type to follow the rules-which didn’t always work in her favour. When all the girls tied their hair into beautiful braids, grans would let her golden locks bounce freely with the rhythm of her steps. When everyone studied hard for an upcoming examination, she would go hunting for little animals to keep as companions.

Later on in her life, she’d even gotten arrested for beating the snobby son of a business owner, who’d attempted to harass her friend. Her mugshot hangs proudly in her living room, framed with a well-polished silver frame.

Even her food choices are out of the norm. She’d once attempted to sell skewered squid drenched with gravy, but all she received were curious glances and an occasional gag from the passersby.

Currently, she was making one of her favourite food combinations- a cookie-popsicle sandwich. She would take a fruity popsicle and squish them between two of her homemade cookies. She tried to convince Ma and Pa that they were “a delicious alternative to ice cream sandwiches”, but the invention spoke for itself.

Now, they are a treat that only me and my grand-gran eat.

I hear the door open and close for a moment. I turn around to see my tiny grandmother holding a tray full of her sandwich creations. Only, this time the cookies were burnt.

“Haha, I guess the sugar from the cookies caramelized a little bit too much,” gran-gran justified.

She promptly sat down beside me and handed me a sandwich, which I reluctantly took from her hands. I proceeded to open my mouth to try the sandwich, but the burnt smell clouded any sense of hope I’d had of the creation, that I can’t bring to call “food”.

I guess she felt the same because a second later she put hers down and told me that she didn’t feel so hungry after all. We both burst out in laughter.

“So young man, how’s your recent painting coming along?” she suddenly asked.

I immediately stopped laughing and replied neutrally, “just fine, as always”.

This was always a sensitive question. Art was something that I could express myself through, but Ma and Pa were blind to any form of expression through art. They once yelled at me after finding one of my paintings under my bed. They threw out all of my paints, canvases and even grounded me for two whole weeks.

Instead of stopping, I just found other ways to paint without them noticing- I skipped classes, lied and made excuses for staying after school.

However, at gran-gran’s home, I didn’t need to explain myself. She bought me tons of supplies and even offered to store all of my paintings for safekeeping.

My most recent project is particularly special. The inspiration came to me after watching grandma swing forwards and backwards on her rocking chair one night. Her locks had long-turned into a dull gray, but nothing could dilute her spirit.

All of the grandmothers I’ve met spend their days knitting away at scarves, bragging about their new crochet to other grandmothers and talking about gardening. Gran-gran was different, just as she’d always been. 

With that thought, I ran inside and came out with my art supplies.

I sketched an outline but quickly decided that this time, I would do things differently just as she would. I blindly painted, using orange, gold, green, blue and every colour I owned. What started out as a few seconds ticked into hours.

Over the next few days, I dedicated time every day towards this painting. Tonight, I would be able to finish the masterpiece.

As night robbed the daylight, I sat under a luminant lamp inside the living room and began painting away again. My last stroke finished the painting but also gave me a feeling of satisfaction on the inside.

I tried to convince myself that I could wait until the next day to give her my painting, but my racing heart told me that the time to do it was now. I ran up to her room and flung open her door. Before she could utter a single complaint about my sudden intrusion, I flew to her bedside and presented her with the painting that I had worked so hard to create.

Instead of crying in joy, she looked visibly confused.

“What am I looking at?” She asked.

Disappointment immediately coursed through my mind, but I tried to hide my emotions.

“Grans! Look at it again, what do you see?” I asked desperately.

“Hm, there’s goldfish, a whole school of ‘em..and there’s a frog” 

“Exactly. The frog! The frog is you gran-gran! Don’t you see it? You’ve always stood out, refused to walk with the herd and refused to be constrained. You’re like a frog among goldfish! You freely go on land, but you thrive underwater too!”

She grinned. I could tell that she was proud.

We talked for a while longer and she told me so many more stories about her life. She was one hell of a rebellious lady.

I went to bed that night happy and feeling completed.

What started as a simple painting turned into validation that, maybe, just maybe I could pursue my passion for art- against all wishes of my parents.

But I didn’t have to waste my time. Time flies quickly on its own when I do what I love.

I didn’t have to pretend to like something I don’t. I don’t have to follow the herd. 

I can also be a frog, just like gran-gran.