WHILE THE CRICKETS ARE STILL SINGING

There are very few things I know for certain.

I know children can hear you open a bag of chips from two floors away but cannot hear you yell, “PUT YOUR SHOES ON!” from four feet.

I know buying one thing at Costco is apparently against federal law.

And I know this…

Erin loves the sound of an August night.

Not likes it. Loves it.

Crickets. Cicadas.

All those tiny creatures hiding in the trees and grass making different sounds at different pitches, apparently with absolutely no concern for our town’s alleged noise ordinance.

Erin could sit outside and listen for hours.

And she does.

Every August.

Sometimes I sit with her. Sometimes I don’t.

Sometimes I walk outside and find her already there, sitting quietly in the darkness as if she has tickets to a concert nobody else knows is happening.

No phone. No television.

Just Erin and approximately 14 million insects screaming for a mate.

Romance changes after sixteen years.

The sun is gone by then.

The heat from the day still hangs in the air.

A few fireflies float above the grass, blinking like they can’t remember why they came into the room.

Then you start hearing everything.

One cricket near the fence.

Another beneath the deck.

A cicada high in the trees.

Something making a noise I can’t identify but sounds expensive to remove.

One starts.

Another answers.

Clicks. Chirps. Buzzes.

Thousands of tiny musicians who have never rehearsed together somehow knowing exactly when to come in.

The symphony of August.

August has a feeling too.

Teachers start thinking about classrooms again, including the ones who announced in June they absolutely would not.

They lied.

Staples starts smelling like anxiety.

Parents stand in Target wondering why a 4th grader apparently requires seventeen glue sticks and one specific yellow folder that exists nowhere in North America.

Kids can feel summer slipping away but aren’t willing to admit it yet.

Soon the U.S. Open will be on.

The evenings get darker earlier.

The fireflies become fewer.

September is standing just offstage, clearing its throat.

But Erin doesn’t seem interested in any of that.

She just listens.

I’ve watched her do this for years.

And I’m only now beginning to understand it.

I’ve spent much of my life believing the important parts would announce themselves.

Graduations.

Weddings.

Births.

New jobs.

Things with photographs and congratulations and people saying, “This is a big day.”

Meanwhile, an ordinary weekday night in August slips right past us.

No pictures. No announcement.

Just someone you love sitting beside you.

A few fireflies.

Crickets in the grass. Cicadas in the trees.

And nowhere else you need to be.

Maybe that’s why Erin loves the sound so much. Or maybe I’m giving her too much credit and she just really likes bugs.

Both are entirely possible.

But eventually the crickets and cicadas stop.

Not dramatically. There is no final performance. No tiny cricket beneath a spotlight saying, “You’ve been a wonderful audience.”

They just stop.

One August night the backyard is deafening.

Then one night you step outside and realize the music is gone.

You can’t remember which night was the last one.

Because life does that too.

The last time your child asks you to carry them.

The last bedtime story.

The last time everyone lives under the same roof or the last ordinary dinner before something changes.

Nobody tells you.

There are no announcements for lasts.

Sometimes you are standing inside a moment you will someday give anything to have back… and it feels completely ordinary.

So… I’ll go sit beside her.

Maybe we’ll talk. Maybe we won’t.

I’ll listen to the cricket near the fence giving the performance of his life.

Because September will come without my help.

The children will grow without asking permission.

And someday, I suspect I won’t wish for one more accomplishment.

I’ll wish for this.

One more ordinary August night. One more ridiculous chorus of bugs. One more chance to sit beside her. 

But that night isn’t gone yet.

The crickets are still singing. Erin is still beside me.

Maybe the tragedy isn’t that everything ends.

Maybe it’s how often we fail to notice that it hasn’t ended yet.