I realized after some checking that I missed out on the cicadas 17 years ago as I would have undoubtedly spent that time at the beach. I wonder how different my mindset would have been 17 years ago, younger, unfazed by a pandemic. This is one of those things that I will never know and frankly can’t even guess on.

We are nearing the end of the cicada cycle, which I find sad. Yes, their noise during mid-day heat was jarring, far more jarring than that of the year-round cicadas. Yet, as I find more and more of their fallen bodies inert on the deck, driveway, grass, succumbing to death a short time after mating, I kind of wish I’d enveloped myself more in the experience than I did. No, I don’t mean eat them, although many did. Nor make jewelry from them, which I understand some did. Or wear silly suits to avoid them. I simply wish I’d been more present than I was. Yet, isn’t that a longing for everyday? To be just a little more there, a little more observant, a little more feeling for everything around me in nature?

Seventeen years from now the offspring of this batch will make their way to the surface after burrowing away. What will they find? 17 years is a long time to contemplate when you’re no longer 20 and I certainly don’t take it for granted that I will be around, but if I am? You can bet I’m in for a front row seat. But, I still won’t eat them.

Goodbye, cicadas
if we meet again, please don’t fly into my face.
Summer begins.