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Goodbye, Sick. We'll miss you.
I have never been exactly squeamish about the small wildlife in our backyard –with the exceptions of Possums, but I can be forgiven for that- and gladly follow my son outside every time he sees a new species. He’s a little confused, at times thinking a small house spider could be a Tarantula, and Wasps can most certainly kill you on the spot unless you scream like a girl. Bunnies needs to be acknowledged each time one shows up, which is every five seconds, it seems- It’s a really great year for bunnies.
This morning, I noticed a Cicada hanging out on my car. I decided to leave it alone, went to the store, came home, went to the store again, only to find that Cicadas will not leave unless they specifically choose to.
“The fly is still there,” Mendel tells me.
“For the third time, it’s not a fly,” I say. “It’s a Cee-Cay-Duh.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Do you think it’s pretty?”
“Yeah,” he says, keeping a safe distance.
“I wonder if it’s still alive," I say. "They usuallydon't live very long, and this one has been sitting there for a few hours.”
My husband asks why we don’t “put the damn thing on a leash”. He’s right: this is one large insect. I make a deal with myself: if it is still clinging to my car by 3 pm, it is most likely dead and we can put it in a jar. Isabella can take it to school tomorrow and show it off; they are learning about insects at school, and a real Cicada would buy her some cool points. It never occurs to me to put a live one in a jar; its sheer size stops me from entrapping it. Not because I’m scared, but because the bigger the animal, the easier it is to feel sorry for them. I don’t want to live in jam jar, why would he?
“Would you like to name it?” I ask Mendel.
“Yes. Let’s call him Sick. For Sickada.”
“Great.”
“Sick the dying Sickada,” he adds; apparently, he wants to make sure we’re both talking about the same animal.
When we leave to pick up his sister from school, Mendel runs to the car to check on Sick.
“He’s gone,” he says. “The large fly flew away!”
I quickly scan the ground by my car for a dead insect, but find none; I guess Sick was indeed, still alive, and decided to seek his fortune elsewhere. Maybe we should have fed it cookies and punch. Maybe Sick decided that any family who gives insects such ridiculous names isn’t worthy of his company.
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