My father told me once, when there was light in my eyes and fuel in my spirit, that cicadas are immortal. He was a bright, young city-slicker, who moved to the middle of nowhere out of necessity for the peace and quiet of the countryside. He was very lucky to be able to work at home for two out of five days a week, helping tend to the farm animals and his two unruly kids while his company stewed in a pot of money and profits. A tall, sleek, silver-tongued man, he was bursting with ideas, and sometimes they spilled over into my life. This was one of the only tales I remembered. He asked me, “Have you ever seen a dead cicada?” I shook my head vigorously, his smug lips parting to spout, “Of course not. Out of all the thousands of voices singing each night, wouldn’t you think that at least one would have passed away?” I know that they die, now. I see at least one curled corpse on the sidewalk when I pass by the city, but the magic had never left. I breathe in the warm autumn air as I sit back in his worn and chipped rocking chair, watching the sun steadily soar through the sky. It’s around three and the cicadas are at full force in their orchestra of chitters, calling out to me. Years later, I made an offhand comment about the cicadas, but this time his own eyes lit up. Picking up their shells and harnessing them securely on my shirt, I poked fun at the story, being the snotty teenagers we all were, but no matter how oblivious to the world I was, I could feel his excitement seeping through my pores, and, once again, I listened. “Did you know that when a person dies, their years are passed on to the cicadas?” I had probably scoffed or snickered or brushed it off. “No, really, they are. When your years are all gone, you become a baby, like your sister, and start life all over again.” “I’m not sure I want to be like my sister,” I said, watching her as she ripped grass from its roots, slowly and methodically chewing it like cud. She puked later that night. We laughed. He pointed to my shirt, crawling with brown husks and empty eyes. “That’s where all the years go.” “Into my shirt?” He lightly smacked me upside the head. “No, stupid, into the shells. At the end of each summer, they sing a song of remembrance and ‘shed the years of growth,’ if I can recall your grandfather saying.” “So, what? Does that mean there’s gonna be this huge-ass cicada walking around downtown?” He smacked me again, hissing “language” as he tried to come up with an answer. “No, when a cicada gets too big, it buries itself into the ground and grows, feeding off the years of the earth. No more questions, alright?” He was lucky I didn’t have any more. Satisfied, I returned to the comforting motion of unsticking a husk from a thin, scrawny oak tree and placing it on me. I had at least two nuclear and extended families on me by the time we had to wash up for dinner. My father died late summer of old age. When I mentioned the myth to him, he had no recollection of the event, and my silent disappointment was insurmountable. That fall, though, was the loudest song they had ever cried. It’s late summer now. The years have worn my old face to leather and my old bones to mere twigs. The sun sets on the tree splotched horizon, cicadas keeping strong into the night, shedding the hard worn years of those long gone. Dying is no quandary of my own, for I would willingly part with them now if death’s shaky hand should allow it. I dream of small, smooth faces, scratched knees, and circular band aids. But most of all, I dream of running again. The squeaky rhythm of the chair fades to a stop and the cicadas sing as my head lulls to sleep in the dying summer sunlight. Soon they will add one more keen husk.