Song of the Cicadas

I recently came across this on my computer from high school. I wrote this during my senior year in AP English. The prompt was to wrote a short story in the unique style of Gabriel Garcia Marquez in Chronicles of a Death Foretold. Certain stylistic elements that Marquez used - references to nature, to sound, and unique capitalizations on words - were supposed to be emulated by us into our own stories. It was a great book, and I had a lot of fun writing it. 

So here's an oldie but a goodie...

The Song of the Cicadas.

It was one of those dry, hot days when Beijing feels like nails on a chalkboard. Outside, the sound of the Cicadas – like the sound of boiling oil, as the Grandmother used to say – stifled the air.

ZZZzzzz Zzzzzz

I grew up listening to the song of the Cicadas. As a kid, during those scorching hot summers, I used to take a stick and dig out Cicada nymphs buried deep underneath the soil. After the Cicadas’ symphony begins, signaling the beginning of their mating seasons, I used to search around trees, collecting Cicada shells molded and left behind long ago by the Real Cicadas that now sing for Birth and Renewal.

ZZZzzzz Zzzzzz

“Those cicadas,” my Grandmother used to say, “are the cruelest creatures. They leave behind their shells, so carelessly.”

So Carelessly.

That day, I sat on my bed, staring at the ceiling. It was blank, glaringly white. No spots. No blemishes.

Nothing.

Nothing except for the sound of the Cicadas.

ZZZzzzz Zzzzzz

“My grandfather keeps a framed picture of him and Chairman Mao.”

The voice suddenly surfaced from the chorus of Cicadas. It was a boy’s voice, a boy in my class. I closed my eyes. Memories flashed before me.

It was during lunch period. Everyone was bored, tired, and hot. Their clothes clung onto their skin as sweat became another layer of epidermis. The heat was suffocating. The sound of the Cicadas stifled the air. Suddenly, there seemed to be a commotion from the back of the room. I  looked to find a small crowd of kids cooing in admiration at the boy who sat in the center. He gestured animatedly. I walked up to the little crowd, curious at what was so entertaining.

“My grandfather keeps a framed picture of him and Chairman Mao.”

The boy said proudly.

He then went on, talking of his grandfather. A trusted comrade in the Party – a true model of Communist ideals. He talked of his grandfather as if he knew Everything about him.

I looked down and sighed. I thought of my own Grandfather. To me, he was the handsome face in an album of black-and-white pictures, dressed in starched Western shirts, staring with beady eyes similar to my own and a roguish smile untainted by the Cultural Revolution. He was the old man in the picture, with wrinkles that make him look decades older than he really was, holding me as I sat for her first birthday cake.

He was my Grandfather.

Yet, I knew nothing about him. Just that he was Dead.

Dead.

Dead? What is this word – “Death”?

In Chinese, the word for “death” is sĭ.

Sĭ.

 I’ve always hated that word.

Sĭ.

There is such an eerie Finality to it. One syllable. It ends as quickly as it begins. Yet, its sound drags on forever.

Sĭ.

This simple word. My parents never explained to me what it meant. I just knew that my grandfather was Dead. Gone. Poof! Disappeared.

Never to come back.

It was as if he didn’t even exist. No one ever mentions his name. Except to say how shameful it was for a man – so weak – to lose to alcohol and cigarettes. We speak only of how horrible it was when he used to go to the kitchen everyday with a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of spirit and come out, an hour or two later, empty handed.

We never speak of anything except that it was a shame he died so young.

I looked up at the ceiling. I could feel the heat of the silk under my skin. So smooth. Yet, Coarse against my sweat.

I thought of my grandmother. A woman perpetually afraid she will contract some kind of incurable disease that she checks her Blood Pressure at least 5 times a day. I thought of my great-uncle, my grandfather’s younger brother. A man with a round face that usually glistened with oil and sweat. The perennial drunk during Chinese New Years. He used to sing Beijing Opera. That, of course, never manifested into anything. He got divorced. And became the Black Sheep of the family. There was my aunt, whose son never met his grandfather because his grandfather died a month before he was due. During New Years, his mother always tries to stuff him extra dumplings. As if he never got Enough.

Then, there was my mother, who always holds my hand when I cross the street.

Never Forget to look both ways, she would always remind me.

Never Forget.

ZZZzzzz Zzzzzz

Suddenly, I could feel the hot flush of tears swelling from behind my eyes.

My grandfather is Dead.

Dead.

Sĭ.

That word. That short, yet noxious word. It would not stop ringing in my ears.

Dead. As in he would never come back. He would never be able to listen to me playing the piano. He would never be able to see me grow. He would never tell me stories of his youth.

I would never be able to say, “My grandfather used to be….”

My eyes blurred as tears swelled up again. I choked back those tears. My chest hurt as I swallowed my tears. Hard.

 Yet, I remembered not to make a noise.

It’s Useless. Useless to Cry.

My grandmother used to say that. My mother used to say that. Everyone still says that.

They expect me to act like my grandfather was Dead.

As if he never existed.

-------

“What if grandpa was here to see this?”

It was another one of those hot, Coarse days.

ZZZzzz Zzzzza

My grandmother turned to me at those words. In her arms, my sister was sound asleep.

She stared at me as the Real Cicadas sounded their mating calls. Singing of Birth and Renewal.

ZZZzzz Zzzzza

“He would have celebrated with a bottle of a bottle of alcohol and gotten drunk on the deck,” My grandmother said with a sneer.

She looked away.

ZZZzzz Zzzzz

We sat there as the sound of the Cicadas stifled the air.

Suddenly, she turned around, and motioned for me to take the baby.

“Here, it’s time for me to take my Blood Pressure.”

ZZZzzz Zzzzz

------

As a child, I used to collect Cicada shells. I would bring them home and line them up in my room. They fascinated me. They looked exactly the same as the Real Cicadas outside.

Except they were Fake.

Hollow. Fragile. Broken.

------

Outside, the Real Cicadas sounded their mating calls. Singing of Birth and Renewal.

ZZZzzz Zzzzz

Looking back, I realized I never noticed.

How cruel they sound.

 

*Note: In China, Cicadas are often used to symbolize immortality. They are often found in tombs and during funerals to follow the dead to the Afterworld. The shedding of their skin is supposed to symbolize the resurrection of the dead in the Afterworld, immortalizing the dead in their passing.

When cicadas are born as nymphs, they are burrowed underground. As they near adult stage, they construct a tunnel towards the surface and emerge. They then shed their skin on a nearby tree, and abandon their skins, still clinging onto the tree bark.