The following is what I used to supplement the length of my story "Another Frog" so that I could use it in creative writing class. It's meant to go in right after the final part of that story.

Years later as they recalled those times, they would laugh and occasionally begin to cry as they remembered that times could be that good. These periods of rendezvous were often followed by phone calls and nostalgic multi-hour conversations and kept Taylor and Alexandra reminiscing for the next few days before something else would hit. But the times were never forgotten and could not be forgotten for they had been tattooed into the brains of the father and daughter and were their most cherished thoughts.

Every Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas and the occasional weekend in the summertime, the two get together in the now-rotting utility shed and they sit and they talk for hours on end about what things were like and how they might be in the times to come and the memories to be made. Those memories will stick to the walls of the old shed and in the minds of the pair and will remain with them even after they've both passed away and left future generations to carry on the tales by word of mouth.

Every spring when the birds are chirping and the sun is shining and the people are relaxing in their yards with lounge chairs while still in sweatshirts and with glasses of cool lemonade that have just a little bit too much sugar and when the trees are swaying in the occasional cool breezes that waft through the hills and the rivers, lakes and even ponds are bursting with life and tiny frogs, the memories with slide through. They'll cling to the word of the birds and they'll sway with the trees and fly with the wind and they'll sweeten the lemonade just a crystal or two more and burst with the ponds. But above all else, they'll hold fast to the tiny frogs as caring fathers palm them to bring to rambunctious daughters who love their daddies dear.

Every summer when the leaves are dulling to a faded khaki from the heat and the pools in the backyards of a few homes on every block are crowded with kids who make their lemonade too sweet and the trees still sway but with a warmer breeze, the memories will be there. They will fade with the leaves with a promise to brighten and they will splash with the water that's thrown up from the pools. They will sit in that lemonade still and they will be what warms the blowing breezes.

Every fall when the leaves are spiraling down into oblivion and the lawnmowers and leaf blowers are pulled out every few days and people pull on sweaters and long sleeved shirts on top of their Maui tank tops and when trees are felled and chopped to make a cold night not quite so cold and when hot cocoa just begins to be "delish" again, the memories will mix right in. They will spin in dizzying circles with the leaves and happily laugh when they're blown to a far-off land and they slide atop the sweaters with a feel for the angora, wool or chenille and they inhabit the wood and invade one's senses again when the smell of the sap overwhelms and they are what makes the hot cocoa so wonderful.

Every winter when the mercury drops in the thermometer and windshields ice over while the day is off elsewhere playing games and the snow makes hints about when it will come and takes bets with the weatherman about whether he'll be right and then the snow falls and covers the emerald grass and the sheds are broken open anew for shovels and salt and snowblowers while little kids climb in their newly-built snow forts to fight with the kids across the street, the memories are mixed right in. They're with the mercury as it cools to a point, then they fly to the sky and make patterns in the ice as day breaks and they chide the weatherman for not knowing when to take a gamble and they fall with the snow and invade the opening sheds while they dance in the eyes of the snow-topped children who laugh and try to cup handfuls of snow in soggy mittens while rubbing frozen noses with the backs of newly exposed hands.

And then spring comes again and someone will hear, "Daddy? How about another frog?"

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