The Cicada. Linoleum block print.

I found a dead cicada and brought it home to sit on my windowsill next to a tomato that needs a little more sunshine to ripen. His iridescent wings are still beautiful. The prehistoric looking shell of a body and beady eyes are perfectly intact.

I don't know how to tell if it is a male or a female. I'm pretending it is a male. It seems more romantic. Only the male Cicada sings. I like singers. Especially human male singers. I don't date them anymore though. Dating a Cicada would be much less burdensome. And they are more likely to be eaten by a squirrel or deep fried.  That is a more heroic way to end a friendship.

As it is, this singer that sits on my windowsill is perfect. He's already dead.

Old Home Days

Before leaving the house and walking to the park for the field days I had Lily wash the mascara off her eyes. After all these years together I was stunned that she actually thought that she could get that past me. Then there was the Daisy Duke hot shorts issue. Roll them down so that it doesn't look like you are wearing bikini bottoms or put sweats pants on. Two easy choices. Both of which triggered eye rolling, grunting and deep loathsome sighs.

Someone recently told me 11 is the new 14. I get it now.
Let the games begin.