As kids, my sister and I carefully plucked their velcro feet off the bark to keep the empty bodies intact: ghost bugs, we called them, naming them Ringo or George, not caring that these immaculate golden remnants weren’t beetles at all, but the casings of cicada larvae that had risen from the earth and scuttled up trees only to burst from their shells, sprout wings, and fly off, leaving behind their hollow former selves to be put under magnifying glasses and be prodded by curious schoolchildren who were far too young to know about yearning or to consider the metaphor.
Paul Ruta is a Canadian writer living in Hong Kong with his wife and a geriatric tabby called Zazu; his kids live on Zoom. Find Paul at paulthomasruta.com and on Twitter and Instagram @paulruta.