The Death of a Cicada In the Garden Among the Punishment of Life

by Trilety Wade

He’d moved so many times that he stopped unpacking his books. Multiple boxes remained taped and sealed, taking up room in closets that were never big enough.

“This is why I only read books from the library now because I don’t have room for any more books.”

“Boxes, you mean. You don’t have room for any more boxes.” A cackle from her mouth cut through the cicada-hum of the garden as he turned his curious reptile neck in her direction.

“I guess that’s more accurate, yes.”

“Why don’t you just read them, or get rid of them?” She’d had bad reactions to her constant unsolicited advice before, so her new tactic was to just turn the guidance into a question.

“Because those books are just a symbol of my dead future, and I don’t want to be reminded of that.” His voice never wavered, never a ripple of misstep or unsure word, making him sound as formal as he was kind.

“Damn,” she spurted, “you mean like your future dies cuz you don’t read all the books you intend to?”

“No,” he negated softly. “I mean, every book is a reminder of the future I didn’t choose. The future of an entomologist, a naturalist. The life I could have had.”

His answer astounded her into a stop on their walk. “That’s a lot of meaning to put on an inanimate object.”

“I guess,” his response was less acceptance and more resignation.

He kept walking.

As they rounded the path into the peonies that were all leaves because it was August not May, he winced at the sound of a loud electric cry. “That cicada is being eaten.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because I studied cicada calls, and that cicada is dying.”

“Are you sure?” she asked while jerking her head in all directions to find the dying.

“I am 100% sure.” His face was still in a flinch, as if he could feel the eating. “Birds will eat cicadas the way we eat corn on the cob, with parallel chomps.”

“Ugh,” she was squealing and making full use of the width of the trail with her spastic hopping, “I can’t handle it!”

“It’s Nature.” How was his doom so soothing?

Near the end of their visit, they talked about families and plans.

“You never wanted kids, right?” Her question was all curiosity and no judgment. Just a way to rebuild the Jenga tower of their friendship that had holes from all the years they went without seeing each other.

“No, I never wanted kids ---”

“Yea, that’s what I thought,” she interrupted as a way to show him she remembered the conversations from their past.

“I’m not going to condemn someone to life.” His serious expression of conviction wasn’t tinged with passion or zealotry, just a statement of fact that being alive is a form of punishment.

She erupted into laughter, exclaiming, “God, I’ve missed you.” His perplexed expression made her exclamation even truer.

Growing up, she always expected the men with the most philosophical depth to be strange in appearance with an affinity towards black. But he was nearly unidentifiable in his common handsomeness: slim body, lean build, well-cut hair, knife nose, just enough to scruff to get scuffed during a kiss. He also never made a fuss or needed to be the center of attention with the ostentatious brooding she’d come to expect from the forlorn and dark poets of her life. Yet he was ever nightfall. Not quite night, but rarely day. More like a transition between two phases.

But he didn’t know he was dark, like she didn’t know she was light.

Trilety Wade

Trilety Wade writes. The “body” is a running theme of her work. She writes essays, short fiction, and poetry. Rules are rarely followed tho she doesn't shun them, because sometimes the confines of guidelines are cozy.

More: https://trilety.substack.com