I found the work of Shaindel Beers online. I was interested that she grew up in rural Indiana where once I was wont to roam. In the town of North Liberty a man asked me the date. I told him and he replied, “Eighty-five years ago today I shot my first duck.” Then he began to cry. The great Theodore Dreiser was an Indiana native, as was his brother Paul, who wrote the beautiful song, “Moonlight on the Wabash.” Also from Indiana: James Dean, Michael Jackson, and Alex Karras, one of the last players to wear a leather helmet in the National Football League. Shaindel Beers' book A Brief History of Time draws on her early life in a very authentic way. Her hometown is not far from Culver, where my friend B. attended the military academy. An overweight dyslexic math prodigy addicted to aspirin, B. was a bridge champion at Culver. But that’s another story, one that was played out several cicada generations before the following poem was written…
Cicadas
Where will we be the next time
they emerge, in 17 years,
when brood X nymphs first wriggle their way
out of exit holes, climb the trunks of oaks and maples,
sun themselves on viburnum,
pale and helpless, before their wings dry
and darken
so they can fly safely to trees to mate, lay eggs,
and die?
I'm not sure I have a concept of 17 years.
I remember Ronald Reagan was President,
I was jealous of my friend Lindsey because
she had a Debbie Gibson hat.
The Princess Bride came out, and is still
my favorite movie.
Seventeen years in the future seems daunting.
The boys at the little league field behind my house
will be men, the neighbors’ dog will be dead
and the tree in my backyard
will no longer be mine.
I could be living anywhere—
not one to put down roots, I can't even guess.
Just yesterday, I realized, looking out your window,
that in less than two months
new trees will greet me from another window.
No longer the canopy of hardwoods,
but lush, tropical greens year-round
1,300 miles away from you.
And though we've talked about this,
I wonder what you're thinking,
what you would like to be doing
with the seventeen years that this year's
nymphs will spend underground,
burrowing, living on the roots of all those trees.
— Shaindel Beers
from the archives; originally published July 7, 2009