There is a roaring in the treesblack walnuts litter the pavementa great magnolia towers in the front yardit is a canopy of glossy leavesand twisting branches,the blossoms are ivoryfallen petals are yellowing in the grassmy aunt tells me when she was littleshe would take the exoskeletonscicadas left clinging to the barkand fasten them to her shirt like a brooch.
There are three species of cicadathat live underground for thirteen yearsand all three can be found in Mississippithey move and eat and resthidden in the crimson clayuntil they feel the fated call to emergetriumphant nymphsin the glittering Strawberry Moonthey shed their tired skinabandon it,fly wildly into the humid nightto form their deafening symphonywhile somewhere small handstransmute their translucent coatsinto secondhand accessories.
My aunt’s house does not exist anymorethe little white house with a secret doorleading into the gardenflooded with soft camelliasthe yard adorned with a magnolia treethat I used to climb with my cousins,black walnuts and cicada songsurround an empty lotfilled with the ghosts of versions of uswhile beneath them exists a world unaltered,each year the second life of creaturesis a spectacle of the unfurling of seasonsbringing the bittersweet recollection of thingslong abandoned,and the promise of wings in moons to come