I’ve noticed that the topic of periodic cicadas has temporarily replaced the weather. Instead of “sure is hot today” or “could use a good rain,” people say “they sure are loud today” and “I wonder when they’ll stop?”
In my neighborhood, the cicadas make more background noise, like the hum of machines. Closer to the Haw River, the sound crashes over my ears in almost deafening waves. It is an otherworldly invasion.
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Cicada Brood XIX, dubbed the “Great Southern Brood” by poetic-minded entomologists, spends 99.5% of their lives underground as nymphs, not the mythological sylvan maidens but as sap-sucking grubs. By the time humans come into contact with them, they have undergone a remarkable metamorphosis into flying, red-eyed insects that mate like crazy.
These cicadas will not be here forever. Nothing lasts. There are different seasons of life, and we all change. While not buggy and underground, the human metamorphosis from infant to toddler to teen is no less weird, epic, and magical. It happens slowly over time, but then you are suddenly overwhelmed with the deafening sound of your teenager’s music.
Today, after a little math in my head, I realized the next time the Great Southern Brood emerges from the depths of the ground, the youngest in my own brood will have graduated high school and likely left the shelter of my house to spread her wings – let’s end the metaphor there before we start thinking about mating!
I resolved to remember the otherworldly drone of cicadas as I strolled into the backyard, where my little girl in pigtails was singing, “Daddy’s home!”
Andrew Taylor-Troutman is the author of Little Big Moments, a collection of mini-essays about parenting, and Tigers, Mice & Strawberries: Poems. Both titles are available most anywhere books are sold online. Taylor-Troutman lives in Chapel Hill where he serves as pastor of Chapel in the Pines Presbyterian Church and occasionally stumbles upon the wondrous while in search of his next cup of coffee.