Youngin's First Lizard Catch

The kitchen door slams.  Fast footsteps.  My oldest son rushes in.  "Mom, I just caught my first lizard."  

"Wow!  That's great!" I say filled with the thrill of a "first" of a young life that will experience many more.  

My son extends his hand to show a tiny lizard barely an inch and a half.  His enthusiasm bubbles over.  I peer over his small outstretched hand.  

My heart sinks.  The lizard sits frozen.  Eyes shut.  I swallow; breathe in.  The conversation I fear dangles in front of me.  Death doesn't scare me.  Or rather, I'm not afraid to talk about it with my son.  We've had that conversation before and will again.  What I fear is one small dead lizard as the casualty of a first lizard catch; the harsh lesson that our achievements can come at a drastic cost.  

What am I going to do?  

I lean forward and clasp it's tiny tail in my index finger and thumb.  And like the fabled Lazarus rising from the dead, the impossibly small lizard kicks it's legs like crazy.  I watch it's sides pulse with life.  My heart races with gratitude. 

My son practices catch and release of his first lizard after finding that it can hang upside down.

Then he retells the story of the great catch.