Cicadas.

“I just love the sand between my toes. Don’t you?”

She looked over at me sitting next to her, my sneakers still on. I imagined used needles poking out of the sand, biting insects, rare ocean diseases.

“Sure.”

She looked out at the thundering waves. The water coming down in such crushing force that tiny earthquakes shook us on the sand. The seafoam crept up the shining beach like hands reaching for salvation, only to be pulled back in by the relentless Pacific. A salty veil hung in the air, shocked into existence by the punishing ocean.

My mother just watched. Eyes slowly blinking, hair gently blowing, mouth slightly smiling. She looked the same. She pushed her feet into the sand until they disappeared. I looked at my own feet, still safely in my sneakers. They were sweaty, hot and blistered but I refused to let them out.

“Do you remember when you told me you couldn’t hear cicadas?” I asked.

She turned her head toward me, the sea still in her eyes. I felt the entire moment wash back onto the shores of my memory.

●

Sitting in hot summer on the back patio, a glass of wine in her hand, afternoon light moving through the grape vines above, radio playing, muffled like it was under water, my Mother said 'I can't hear cicadas anymore. To me they no longer exist.'

She took a sip of her wine and laughed like it was nothing, raised her eyebrows, shrugged. Her tanned shoulders calm and relaxed.

How could she not hear cicadas? They sing when everything else is dying, in the dry grass they spring to life and remind us that in the harshest times the world is still full. They are the sound of a thousand lazy summers and childhood campfires. Hearing them meant you could smell sagebrush on warm winds, wood smoke and manure. That cracked hum in the late daylight meant your skin was tired and tingling and there was dirt in your hair. Cicadas were the voices of faeries and the music of arid days.

My Mother became mortal that day, she began to lose her magic. It seemed as though she chose to stop hearing cicadas. She chose to pretend they didn't exist. I was so mad at her, watching as she chatted about her neglected garden, 'so much to do, so little time,' she said.

So little time. Perhaps my Mother stopped hearing cicadas because she had too much to do in very little time. Perhaps hearing them stirred memories that took her away when she needed to be present. Maybe somehow she knew, as I did in that moment, that she would get sick, that the sound of hot summer days would lose all meaning. Like most things do when you're trying to survive.

Watching her that day, sipping her wine, wearing a white tank top that used to be mine, her hair wavy and lightened by the sun, my anger turned to overwhelming sorrow. My mortal Mother couldn't hear cicadas, and she had accepted it. To me, in that moment, it felt like she had accepted death, because she could no longer hear life.

●

“Yes. I remember.” My Mother finally said. She turned back toward the sea.

The ocean water looked milky, a turquoise milkshake. I could hear the hiss of the effervescence after each tidal break. The ocean’s breath. Exhaling salt onto my skin in a whisper. I wanted a better answer. I was still mad.

She picked up a handful of sand and let it fall through her fingers. I recognized her hand instantly. Too pink, soft, slightly wrinkled. Like mine, but with shorter fingers. I felt a strange comfort, knowing I could look at my own hands and see hers.

“I’m sorry.” She said, in a tone that was rough but genuine. “You’re looking for answers that I do not have.”

A couple in full outdoor gear passed by. They nodded and smiled, leaving me alone with their footprints and a ghost. I sighed and fixed my gaze on a log trapped in the persistent tide. It rolled in and out, unable to escape a dizzying tidal torture. I related to the log, rolling in and out. Feeling that rush toward the shore, only to be sucked backwards again. No way to know which way it will finally end up, safely ashore or out to sea, drifting in the abyss.

“Do you remember Egypt?” I pressed on more memories. “Did you already know?”

●

Egypt. I had an inexplicable desire to go on a trip with her. When I asked her if she wanted to go, she didn’t hesitate. She didn’t contemplate the finances or the risks, she just said yes. There was no debate about where, even though our friends and family begged us to choose elsewhere. I felt an urgency that I couldn’t explain at the time.

My mother and I developed a love-hate relationship with Egypt. We hated the dodgy speed bumps at every turn, but loved that they were made by families to protect their children; we loved the delightful, hard-working donkeys trotting down every road, but hated the noise they made at 4 am; we loved the white-toothed smiles and friendly hollers, but hated the subsequent onslaught of souvenir hawkers; we loved the dry heat, but hated the hot sandy wind that scratched our cameras and infiltrated our luggage; and we hated that there was no alcohol, but loved hibiscus tea.

We visited the Pyramids at Giza. As we walked awestruck toward the golden monoliths, I saw a tear drip out from under my mother’s sunglasses and run down her cheek. “I wish I had your Nana’s sunglasses.” She said. “It was always her dream to come here, and it would have been wonderful to see through her eyes. I just can’t believe I’m really here.” She smiled tearfully and touched the worn limestone, still perfectly aligned, at the base of the Great Pyramid. I hugged her hard, the wind intertwining our hair, and I felt a small pang of sadness for my mother, who missed her mother daily and spoke of her often.

●

“Did I already know? Perhaps.” She smiled the half-smile that she always did when she was thinking.

I felt my cheeks get warm, and the wind pushed tears from my eyes. If she knew she was sick, why did she risk traveling with me? Her useless anxiety-ridden daughter. I felt her eyes on me, reading my mind. When I turned to look at her, her perfect face was looking directly into my mortal one.

“You know the answers to your own questions sweetie. I can hear them.”

And there it was. I listened to the white noise of wind through trees, waves crashing. I shut my eyes tightly and dug my hands into the sand, grabbing at the dense wetness below the surface. Biting insects be damned.

My mother didn’t accept death. She fought against it for as long as she could. My mother didn’t fear death. The fear I felt was my own. She traveled with me not out of recklessness, but out of love for life, for travel, for me.

“I have to go.” She said, rising out of the sand.

When she stood, a warmth descended on me, dry and intoxicating. The waves that had seemed so unforgiving slowed to lick the shore and push my log to safety. In the grass behind me the buzzing melody of cicadas began a chorus so loud the vibration lifted the hairs on my arms. My mother looked down at me, and I could see clouds move through her.

“I can hear them now.” She whispered, and walked into the milky, tumbling ocean.

“I wish I had your sunglasses.” I replied as I slowly untied my laces.