Old Blind Wish

We didn’t have cicadas where I grew up. I have no memories of waking to the shrill sound of locusts mating in the maples. Here, there’s the constant strange music of a thousand rain sticks in the leaves, and the first of them are starting to tire after weeks of reproducing in the tops of oaks and sycamores. We watched them crawling up a bird bath, not knowing it wasn’t a tree, not knowing it was only a few feet tall, not knowing they were going nowhere. “Old blind wish,” Nick said, as we sat together in the botanical garden, and I knew he was quoting Mary Oliver, because I had read to him The Turtle the week before. And it was true, that the cicadas didn’t know that within a few weeks all the thousands of others still swarming high above them with their whistling wings would be weary too, or that they would all ultimately expire, any more than they understood they were crawling up a bird bath. All they knew was that, after all those years underground, it was time to emerge into the sunlight, to shed their skin and to ache endlessly for their their final rite in the sky.


About A B

"There is all this untouched beauty, the light, the dark, both running through me." -Over The Rhine
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