Little Scratches

I.

The neglected yard of a local abandoned house stands meadow high. Overnight, the grass floods with brown casings and red-eyed spawn. This is how it begins.

Silently, cicadas surface to molt, climb, mate. Our shoes crunch exoskeleton evidence of invasion. My daughters—five and three—stare at the creeping bark of trees, mesmerized by miniature zombie movements.

Like my youngest, I was three for my first Brood X. I should not remember, being so young, but I do. I play in the shade of a house. Big kids race through the sun. Somebody jokes, slipping barbed alien legs through the front mesh of my T-shirt. A cicada pin flip-flaps against me, hooked. Mutual panic flares. I screamcryrun until someone stops me by the shoulders and sets my grotesque accessory free. Trauma is a brilliant encoder.

In first grade every student keeps a journal. Time is reserved for scrawling sentences each day. “It doesn’t matter what,” a classmate says, “just write something.” Summer blooms. My journal follows me home. Mom pages through it, laughing. “Did you write anything but this?” she asks, pointing to identical lines beside each date: I have nothing to say.

 II.

In my teens I lie awake at night to the sound of parents fighting. I journal for stability. Dad says he wants to fix it. Why won’t she let him? I write on a ride to dance class. Mom is aggravated, running late. On my exit, I shove notebook under minivan seat.

Two sweaty, rhythmic hours later, I return to the van. Mom is nonresponsive at the wheel. I clock the set of her jaw, the tremble of her lip, and I know. She’s read it. My every tired muscle dreams of disappearance. I join her in silence—damming back oceans, seeping with regret. I tell myself: In the future, destroy your writing before anyone gets hurt.

In college I work to preserve dance for its teaching income and airborne moments. One June afternoon, I park my airless Volvo under a lively oak and rush to perform an opening number. Post show, I approach with caution. My sunroof and windows yawn, agape. The 240 is raucous with passengers. Engine off, she’s still abuzz.

I major in English, writing for grades and a little for me. Senior year, a friend hires me to draft city government newsletters. Phase II of the Safety and Beautification Project begins this June. . . . Words convert to income, and nobody gets hurt.

III.

Seventeen years pass. Cicadas feast beneath the soil. I adopt a dog, marry, get a mortgage. Mom goes to rest in the ground. My husband and I have two kids, keep a cat. All the while, corporate copy composition equals compensation—a low-risk calculation with historic success.

This week, another inundation. I’ve seen things in my almost four decades. Theoretically, I am wiser—or, at least, more experienced. Yet the sight of these legions, ascending leafy canopies above, infuses me with a low, pulsing terror. Cicadas are so many and we humans so few. All day the air hums with their vibrations, like a ringing in the ears of Earth.

While walking, we spot a clump of neighborhood children by a tree. My oldest takes charge, lining kids in a row. She gathers cicadas to place on open palms. As she works, she educates. “See their red eyes?” she asks a toddler. “They won’t hurt you, but they scratch a little. Want to hold one?”

All I want is community. To find it, I enroll in a virtual writing workshop. A periodic creative reemerges, spewing stories of loss, rapture, rage. She writes for herself and it hurts, but in a good way, like forgotten muscles flexed. She sheds old skin—words—onto the page. She’s finding song.

“Want to try, Mom?” My daughter turns, all eyes sweeping my direction. “Do you want to hold a cicada?” she repeats. I want to vanish. But I don’t. Instead, I breathe one long breath.

“Okay,” I say, “I’ll try it.” I flatten my hand and flip it, readying myself to receive.

Grappling-hook legs meet my skin and I cannot look. I focus on my daughter’s eyes, bright with excitement. Then, slowly, I lift my hand into sight and behold her gift. Ruby eyes, citrus legs, and the shimmery tremor of wings. “See,” she says, “not so bad.” And she is right. So far, it only scratches a little.

-Sarah Disney

Sarah Disney is a writer/wife/mother living in Louisville, Kentucky. She is over answers and into unknowns. She loves dogs, but houses a cat. A dance teacher once complimented her for suspending motion, midair. Sarah’s still chasing that high—now, with words. Her essay “Second Sinking” appeared in The Rush. Find her on Instagram and Twitter @thatsarahdisney