3 aug 2012

i swear the little buggers have calendars. every august, like calendar-work, the cicadas come out. not those special OMG THEY'RE HERE cicadas, but your basic run-of-the-mill cicadas. in the augusts of my youth and childhood, i was at summercamp, so the sound of the cicadas brings back that most melancholy feeling: campsickness. we're at end of summer, end of summercamp, facing home in all its bittersweet dysfunctional glory. while the other girls hug their BFF's necks, weeping over impending separations, i wander down for one more walk on the lakeshore, one more chance to put my bare feet on the sun-faded wooden docks, one more glimpse of trees on the opposite shore reflected in the still surface of my beloved lach. people will let you down, you know, but the lach... it's got a foreverness to it that you can rely on.

and so here am i now -- watching olympics, relaxed in the recliner, tucked tightly into this climate-controlled environment, and yet from outside these sturdy walls it comes to me... the sound of the cicadas... and same as that ancient sound penetrates this sturdy home, those ancient feelings penetrate the defenses of my soul.