On Becoming Prone to Accidents of Joy
I heard the first cicada of summer the other evening as I sat on the porch and watched the sky change hues every few minutes as the day slipped so gently into night. The cicada’s mating call, which our amateur-entomologist daughter informs me is the loudest insect sound on the planet, transports me instantly back to playing “kick the can” at twilight during the summers of my youth. Summer seemed carefree then. That was before mortgages and children—and prior to being thirty y