For weeks, we cant go outside without the cicadas song wrapping itself around the three of us like a quilt. The tree in our front yard has become their sanctuary, a place where they all seem to congregate and sing their first and final songs. We get closer, and see the way their exoskeletons ornament the bark like golden ghosts, shadows abandoned by their bodies searching for new life. One of you is four years old. One of you is two. The next time the cicadas rise out of the earth you will be twenty-one and nineteen. I think of how much might change between these cycles. How much of our planet will still be intact? What sort of societies will the cicadas return to when they next make their way up from the earth? When they first arrive, you are both frightened of this new noise that hangs in the air, of these small orange-and-black-winged bodies that fall from the sky like new rain. They dont bite, I say. But neither of you believe me. So I reach out to one of the branches and allow one of the orange-eyed creatures to climb onto my finger. You both watch it roam around my hand as it becomes familiar with the flesh of my palm, your eyes widening at the revelation that this infrequent visitor has no interest in piercing my skin. And maybe that is enough, because now you both try to pick up cicadas from the ground and collect them in buckets as if they are treasure. And maybe they are. Maybe treasure is in what dies almost as quickly as it rises from the earth. Maybe treasure is anything that reminds you what a miracle it is to be alive.