Cicadas

I’m on my porch, having dinner with the sky. Staring at the clouds, wishing I could see a single star through them.

I can smell the cigarette my neighbor is smoking, but we haven’t said hello to each other.

The light from the kitchen is just barely enough to let me see what my fork skewers, as my phone chimes for attention with messages from my Mother.

She’s upset, and so am I … I’m trying to figure out why.

I’m alone in Rocky Hill eating with the cicadas. But, if I close my eyes to them, and the feel of an August night, it takes me to Virginia, and a smile spreads on my somber face. 

The sound of them will always take me back to nights at the picnic table, or around the fire, or laying on cots. They filled all the silent moments with a comforting sort of echoing rhythm. They were the soundtrack to our evenings, and I'm happy to be surrounded by them again.