The Emergence

For our family, it happened four times last week—the turning of tassels, the tossing of hats, and the taking of family pictures. And in each grandparent picture, I felt dwarfed by these young men I used to carry in my arms, sometimes two at a time.

These graduates, who seemed to come all at once, helped us start the Cousin Week tradition that has continued for nearly two decades. During each of last week’s photo shoots, an old picture kept coming to my mind—the four of them lined up during an early Cousin Week. And when I got home, I found it.

They kept us busy that week. And busy last week, traveling some 1700 miles to get to their events.

When we opened our car doors at the graduation party in Kentucky, we could hear the singing of over a million uninvited guests, cicadas—specifically, Brood 14 of the 17-year periodical cicadas. They were babies together, these noisy guests and our four grandsons, the cicadas spending their pre-emergent lives underground, and the boys in the safety of their parents’ homes.

While our grandsons were drinking milk and eating pizza, the cicadas had been feeding on xylem and drinking sap from tree roots. And while the boys rode scooters and bikes and played basketball and ran the fastest miles they could, the cicadas were busy too, excavating tunnels through the soil.

But this spring, when the soil warmed and the flowers bloomed, the cicadas came up to look at the earth through their red, popped-out eyes. In Kentucky, which is the epicenter for the emergence of this brood, they blanketed trees, fences, sidewalks, and decks decorated for graduation parties.

But only for a few weeks. After the males “sing” to attract females and females click when they like a song, they mate. And after the females lay their eggs, the adults die—not living to see their young, who burrow underground for their own childhoods.

Unconcerned with their coming demise, the emergent cicadas partied right along with the boys, singing and clicking and dive-bombing people, and drinking plant juice from young twigs and small branches. No cares encumbered them. There’s no room in their miniscule brains, after all, to fret about college majors and scholarships and summer jobs.

Our grandsons ate homemade soft pretzels and ice cream treats, chatted with friends, accepted cards and gifts, and treated their elders with due respect and appreciation. But under the gaiety, background thoughts likely looped through their brains. They’re heading out to perhaps the most uncertain and thrilling parts of their lives so far. They’ve got choices to make and consequences to go with those choices. They’re stepping toward independence.

Sometimes I’d like to take them back in my arms, to keep them safe and solve their simple problems. But I’m glad they’re emerging. And though my arms aren’t large enough to hold them, my heart still can.