Sunset Is Coming on the Summer of Cicadas
I hate cicadas.
I hate their big, beady eyes. I hate their prehistoric bodies, and how they'll fly into you, heedlessly, like a drunken man spinning around a party. I hate how wormy they look when freshly emerged from their exoskeletons. Speaking of exoskeletons, I hate how cicadas leave little empty copies of themselves all around. I hate how hard it is to tell a live cicada from one of their shells.
I've already had one cicada-related injury in my life. My younger brother used to chase me around the house with all manner of critters -- garden snakes and such -- and when I was 9 years old, I jumped off a seesaw to get away from a cicada he'd tossed my way. I fell on my arm awkwardly and broke it, and ever since, my dislike of cicadas evolved into fierce hatred.
I have, however, had to live in uneasy coexistence with a tremendous number of cicadas these past couple of weeks as two broods emerged simultaneously for the first time in more than 200 years. Our neighborhood, our sons' school, our own house, have been overrun. The birds are doing their part to thin the herd, but still, the tree in our backyard is practically covered in shed skins, and you have to be careful where you step or risk sending yet another cicada to meet its maker.
My sons, though, are loving the whole thing, exoskeletons and all. They spent two hours on the playground on a recent sunny afternoon playing with the cicadas, building them a hotel and crafting elaborate worlds starring the insects as the main characters. They named one of the cicadas "Bob."
"Bob died, Mom," my older son said as he held a branch with a cicada on it.
"He doesn't look dead to me," I said, shifting away.
"No, this is Buster," he said, proudly showing me the branch, bringing it closer to my face so I could see it better.
"OK, just keep Buster over there, will you?" I said, taking a step back.
"He's not going to hurt you," my son said.
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