The Hum
In the heat of day, the cicadas hum and buzz and gasp their last. A choral reminder that summer, too, is coming to an end.
The males, like so many boys, are the noisy ones. Their vibrating timbals a lusty call to the ladies: “Find me.”
Normally, I love the cicadas. Their ferocity, their absolute determination to “not go gentle into that good night.”
But, this summer is different. This summer is a fugitive. Too fleeting for someone as abnormally obsessed with time, as I.
This summer, the hum of the cicadas is a cruel admonition that I did not do what I dreamed about doing. Again.
I did not languish on a beach. Or hike through a forest. Or make love on a steamy night with the windows open.
What did I do? What did I accomplish, over this summer? This season of beach parties and fests and hot clinches by the cool light of the moon?
I wrote and I cleaned and I felt and I dreamed. Secret things and secret thoughts because that’s the dreamer’s way.
Certainly, that is something. So, why do I feel like a straggler in a marathon, bringing up the rear and gasping for air?
No. I won’t think this way. I can’t think this way. Because, there’s still time, isn’t there? Time for summer, and me?
Sherry McGuinn is a longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.
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