James Siegel looks back to childhood on the lake and finds unique meaning in the ephemeral lives of these summertime insects.
—
Mayfly
Life is short
for adult mayflies.
They mate
over warm lakes,
shallow riverbeds,
until it’s time
for the females to drop their eggs
on the water’s surface.
Exhausted from age,
she rests on a wave —
slides into the mouth of a trout.
Meanwhile, the men
fly off by the millions
to live out their last days.
A biblical plague
descending on the sides of buildings.
They were silent little house guests,
Jehovah’s Witnesses
that wouldn’t go away.
Lounging on front porch swings,
twitching their antennas
on the screen doors,
they waved to the mailman,
to the neighbors next door.
A gory horror show
on my early morning paper route
when they popped like overripe grapes
under the wheels of my bike,
exploded under the weight
of a heavy weekend edition.
A good scare
on summer evenings
when they caught you off guard,
floating
from the corners of the garage,
the darkness of the rose bushes,
to brush the sides of your face,
rest in the tangles of your hair.
They were everywhere —
a congregation of wings
in the parking lot
of St. John the Baptist,
clinging to the stained glass,
the bells in the steeple.
Sometimes they wandered in
to tap their toes on the organ keys,
walk the length of St. Joseph
from his sandaled feet
to the baby Jesus
cradled in one arm.
But mostly they loved
the rusted anchors of the marina,
the boat propellers slick with slime,
the beer-soaked coolers
stacked on the rocking docks of the river.
Mostly,
they were like my father,
looking for peace
after long, hard weeks
of bending metal into car parts.
No Sunday services —
just a tackle box,
a brown-bagged lunch
and the afternoon light
shining off a fishing lure.
His hymn simple —
If I want to find God,
He’ll be on the lake.
Sometimes I see Him
when the insects die,
return again
to haunt the places they left behind,
when my father comes home
sun-burnt and beaming
with a fresh catch —
pails of big-mouth bass,
their bellies full with mayflies.
***
Editor’s Note: James Siegel has published with us before. Read his daring “Ghosts in Leather.”
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Photo by Hartwig HKD /Flickr
Luminous work with a great sense of heart and humor.
Stephen, thank you for your kind words. It means a lot!