Cicadas

Certain sounds trigger memories in me so real it is as if I am there. For example, whenever I hear the sound of cicadas, I am immediately transported to a childhood memory. I am lying on the bed at my grandparents’ house in rural South Dakota. I remember the rigidness of the hand-made quilt and the grooves in the footboard that I would rub my feet across, like rosary beads, praying for sleep. A podiatric lathe, carving grooves into memories. I knew them well because I quickly became much taller than the bed, and so was forced to study the footboard.

Still warm from the hot humid summer sun I lay on the bed listening and studying. The window open, in hopes of a cool evening breeze to penetrate the room, provided a channel for the steady rhythm of the cicadas in the ether of the night. I remember the curiosity that I felt about what was just outside, and then farther outside. What sights, sounds, tastes, smells would I come to experience in my life? There seemed like so much out there.

As I witness more, I become increasingly more aware that there is so much more yet to see. I frequent roads that are familiar, unaware, but curious of what lies just beyond the hill. Whole new environments, and beauties I may never partake of. People I may never meet. Things that will never be added to my life experience. And so I cherish the memories that I have retained and experienced while striving to take opportunities to discover new places, experiences and people.
My memories of home: my memories of family, friends and of the world around me. Some are old and engrained, others new, fresh and awaiting deeper discovery.