When I was a kid I used to spend my summers searching for the abandoned cicada shells left around the huge oak tree in front of my grandma’s house. Painting them with nail polish and marching them in the sand occupied my youth in the years before Star Wars and its subsequent action figures. I’d put them on my sisters and aunt to hear them squeal until eventually an adult would yell at me. It stopped being fun when one of the scratchy legs broke off and got in someone’s eye.

Every summer in Texas I listen to the cicadas whine and whine; their electric buzzing drones during the hot dusk. When I walk out my backdoor, I always see several cicada shells on the stairs and steps. Today they were having a meeting, which they let me attend.