the Sound of Cicadas

I was on my way to one of my daughter’s engagement parties yesterday. My Jeep and I have made many trips through the narrow county roads across the middle of the state and it was a beautiful afternoon for the drive.

My mind was filled with the vision of our two families merging into one. I knew I would see the smiles of cousins and nieces and nephews. I knew the aunts and uncles and siblings of both families would be there under the warm winds of this summer night.

The wind blew into the Jeep as it always does and muffled the sounds of my surroundings… I could still hear the echoing cadence of the cicadas as they sang in one voice through the trees and thickets of countryside. I was lost in my thoughts…

And then I heard what my mechanic describes as an “expensive” sound. I first thought I had run over something or had a flat tire because the rear of my Jeep dropped suddenly… then there was another “more expensive” noise. As I looked to my left, I saw a tire and wheel attached to a steel rod moving past me and gaining speed. That’s when I realized the axle and wheel belonged to me.

I quickly pulled off of the road and watched the tire make a path into the vines and trees to my left. I knew I would have to retrieve it. I was dressed in a new, clean shirt so that wasn’t an option just then. After a few phone calls and words of explanation, I was able to get to the party and enjoy the evening as I knew I would.

As the evening drew to an end, we made arrangement for a tow truck to meet us back at the Jeep. I watched them drag my three legged baby onto a flatbed truck with the wheel and axle safely by her side. I made arrangements to get home knowing they would put her back together for me in a few short days.

As the bright lights flashed on the tow truck and through the shuffle of the heavy chains dragging against medal… through the strained power of the winch and the diesel motor of the truck… and through my thoughts, the realization that I had finally driven a vehicle until the wheels fell off, I could still hear the sounds of the cicadas in that warm summer night.

                                                     Shannon R Killman

Painted Driveway

My crepe myrtle trees have grown into maturity under my every-watching eyes. I planted them years ago as little colorful sprigs and watered them daily to ensure their survival in the hot summers of the South.

I spaced them for the future… for now. I watched their limbs grow toward the sun. I watched the thin bark pull from the trunks and fall in lacy patterns under my fingertips. I pruned the errant branches that worked their way in the wrong direction.

My little trees line both sides of my driveway and have finally grown together in a hand holding canopy. The trunks are thick and smooth and bare the marks of climbing cats and squirrels. They have survived the heaviness of cold winters and the torrents of rain in the springs and summers.

The heat of the summer brings afternoon showers of temporary relief. They leave behind the memories of seasons past and the heavy humidity that can be seen and felt in the lungs. The heavy drops of rain drive the tender petals of the crepe myrtle to the ground and blanket the brick and concrete like a pink powdery snow…

This is what I thought it would look and feel like when I pulled at the rich soil so many years ago. This is what I wanted to see in the summer… a summer in my life with the eyes and imagination of a boy… a boy with a painted driveway.

                                                            Shannon R Killman