My neighborhood was an urban menagerie. Snakes and snapping turtles mingled with fast–food wrappers in the creek. Tadpoles swam in street puddles after spring storms. Months later, cars left frog skins baking into the asphalt.
The green anole lizard was my favorite. Something about their beady eyes and the way they fought their reflection in my dining room window captivated me. The skin flap under their chin would flare out like a red balloon as they bobbed and weaved in their territorial tussle.
Despite my best efforts, I never caught a lizard. There were close calls when I managed to sneak behind them and slam a bucket on the concrete. The sidewalk would burn my cheek as I peeked underneath the bucket to only find a twitching tail. Looking up, I would be left with a fleeting glimpse of a tailless lizard vanishing into my grandmother’s azaleas.
I would carry the tails to my bedroom where they would continue to thrash on the shag carpet in front of the TV. My hope that the tails would regenerate a new lizard never happened, but I saved them anyways. Usually, the tails were gone when I returned from school, and my grandmother would lecture me about bringing animal appendages into her home.
“Why do lizards lose their tail?” I asked my grandmother.
“To grow, you have to lose a piece of yourself.” She rubbed the back of my neck tenderly. “Don’t be sad. Change is good, no matter how scary it looks.”
I now know that it’s a defense mechanism, but I hear her words when thinking about my neighborhood that has become unrecognizable. The small creek dried. The turtles and snakes went with it. Rainfall no longer summoned frogs. After not seeing the green anole for many years, I conceded that they abandoned their patrol of my grandmother’s garden.
When it felt like nothing would be the same again, a green anole with a stumpy tail in the midst of growth appeared at the dining room window. I wondered if the lizard had just escaped a neighborhood child’s grasp. At that very moment, a child could be staring in awe at the tail writhing in his fist, holding onto a piece of something that is long gone.
About the Author:
Justin Fellows is a writer living in Bethesda, Maryland. His work can be found in Folio, Daikaijuzine, Mobius Blvd and has received honorable mentions for the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest.
