Requiem for The Cicadas

As a young girl I believed the low hum of summer cicadas to instead be ‘the sound of the sun’. The sun would sing to me and smile as it beamed in revelry; ‘this is your summer day’, it would whisper into my ear between the vibrating notes, ‘I’ve given it to you.’ I hear cicadas now and I am reminded of the distant fragility of my youth. In those moments I marvel at the passage of time, and question the nature of change. In time, the delicate tapestry of my girlhood will unfurl beyond recognition. My blood, once a strong, hearty red, will turn a rich sapphire blue. Now, I spill beautifully akin to an esoteric nightmare; impurity assuaged.

The sun once sang for me, but it was just the cicadas. Small, decrepit vermin. Like me, they’re consistent in their languorous ways and have only one song.