The arrival of the rains brought with it all the good things: the fresh air, the smell of wet earth, playing in the street with my sisters, barefoot, getting wet in front of my house, jumping over every little puddle of water, making little paper boats and throwing them into the canal to watch them sail until they slowly sank under the weight of the water, which faded the drawings I had colored on the paper.
When it rained very hard, I was content to watch from the window the raindrops slipping one after another on the fogged glass.
"Mom! can I go outside and play in the rain?" Even though I already knew the answer, at least I tried, maybe she would say yes.
"No, daughter, it's raining too hard"
The chirping of the cicadas announced that it would start raining soon. And I, in my childish innocence, wondered where so many insects with transparent wings and brown bodies would come from, producing such a high-pitched sound that they would not stop until, according to my mother and grandmother, they would burst from the force of their singing.
In the city of Caracas where I lived my childhood, I remember the time of the cicadas as something extraordinary, an event that without a doubt preceded the fall of the first rains of the year. And the land, thirsty from the long summer, was grateful that soon they would have water to quench their thirst.
My sisters and I had fun looking for them in the trunks and branches of the trees. It wasn't easy to spot them because their color was confusing and they were usually high up. But we just had to wait for them to sing.
"There are some over there, let's get them," said my older sister, who was always the most daring.
"But Maga! they are too high!", I would tell her judiciously because my mom wouldn't let us ride in the trees.
"Don't be afraid More!, let's go up!". And without waiting for my answer, she grabbed the trunk with agility, her arms and legs hugging them and reached the first branch of the cedars, mahoganies or laurels that had been planted all over the urbanization.
I would easily climb the laurel tree because its branches were low, strong and horizontal. It was the ideal tree to climb.
When we caught some, we would grab them by the sides because we thought they might sting us if they turned their heads. We wanted to know where the sound was coming from. But they would stay quiet. What we could see, we could see, were their big eyes and a long stiletto from their mouth where they fed.
After satisfying our curiosity, we would set them free and they would fly back into the trees.
One day we were going for a ride with my parents in a very big car, I remember it was an old blue car. But very roomy and comfortable. It had to be that way so that we five daughters could fit in the back, a little tightly.
We were waiting for my father to start the car, when suddenly, through the windows of the car, several cicadas came fluttering in. We started screaming. The sound of the wings was loud and we were frightened. They stood on our heads and we, like crazy, shook our hair with our hands.
My parents couldn't stop laughing and my mother, who knew about our love for catching cicadas, told us.
"It's just that the cicadas are taking revenge for the scare you give them when you catch them. Don't think I haven't noticed that they are riding the trees!". My mother, I don't know how, although I suspect that the neighbor was telling her the story, she always found out everything.
Finally the cicadas flew away and we were able to move on. But from that day on we only saw them in the trees and left them alone. We understood that we had no right to bother them. They had a life and a mission.
A few days later we began to see the bodies of the cicadas covered with a white powder.
"They are already dying" my mother told us.
"Poor things last so few days", that seemed unfair to me.
At that time I didn't know that cicadas spend most of their lives, many years, underground and that when they come out they do it to reproduce and die.
But they do something else that is still magic to me. They announce the arrival of the rains like the most reliable meteorologists.
And so it was, almost at the same time that the cicadas were dying after laying their eggs on tree twigs to start a new life cycle, the humidity of the air changed and the sky was covered with gray clouds that discharged the water with force over my city.
And even today I live in another city where I hardly hear them sing, when I do I get excited and I look for them in the trunks and branches of the trees, but I don't see them. But what I am sure of, is that they are announcing that the long awaited rains will soon arrive.
La llegada de las lluvias traia consigo todo lo bueno: el aire fresco, el olor a tierra mojada, jugar en la calle descalza, mojándome frente a mi casa, saltar sobre cada pocito de agua, hacer barquitos de papel y tirarlos a la canal para verlos navegar hasta que poco a poco naufragaban.
Cuando llovía muy fuerte, me conformaba con ver desde la ventana las gotas de lluvia resbalando una tras una sobre el vidrio empañado.
—¿Mamá puedo salir a jugar con la lluvia? Aunque ya sabía la respuesta por lo menos hacia el intento.
—¡No hija! está lloviendo muy fuerte.
El canto de las chicharras anunciaba que pronto comenzaría a llover. Y yo, en mi inocencia de niña, me preguntaba de dónde saldrían tantos insectos de alas transparentes y cuerpos marrones, que producían un sonido tan agudo, que no paraba hasta que, según decía mi mamá y mi abuela, se reventaban de tanta fuerza que hacían al cantar.
En la ciudad de Caracas donde viví mi infancia, recuerdo la época de las chicharras como algo extraordinario, un suceso que sin equivocación posible precedía la caída de las primeras lluvias del año. Y la tierra sedienta por el largo verano agradecía que pronto tendrían agua para calmar la sed.
Mis hermanas y yo nos divertíamos buscándolas en los troncos y las ramas de los árboles. No era fácil detectarlas porque su color se confundía y generalmente estaban a mucha altura. Pero solo teníamos que esperar que cantaran.
—¡Allí hay unas! ¡vamos a agarrarlas!,—decía mi hermana mayor que era siempre la más audaz.
—¡Pero Maga!, estan muy altas, —le decia yo de juiciosa, porque mi mamá no nos dejaba montar en los árboles.
—No seas miedosa More, ¡vamos a subir!.
Y sin esperar mi respuesta, se agarraba del tronco con agilidad, sus brazos y piernas abrazandolo y llegaba hasta la primera rama de los cedros, caobos o laureles que habían sido sembrados por toda la urbanización.
Yo me subía con facilidad al laurel porque sus ramas estaban a baja altura y eran fuertes y horizontales. Era el árbol ideal para trepar.
Cuando capturabamos algunas chicharras, la agarrabamos por los costados porque pensabamos que nos podian picar si volteaban la cabeza. Queríamos saber de donde venía el sonido. Pero ellas se quedaban calladitas. Lo que si podiamos ver, eran sus grandes ojos y un largo estilete desde la boca que era por donde se alimentaban.
Luego de satisfaccer nuestra curiosidad, las dejabamos libres y volaban de nuevo hacia los árboles.
Un día ibamos a salir de paseo con mis padres en un carro muy grande, recuerdo que era un odsmobille viejo de color azul. pero muy amplio y cómodo. Tenía que ser así para que cupieramos las cinco hijas atrás, un poco apretadas.
Estabamos esperando que mi padre arrancara, cuando de repente por las ventanas del carro, entraron varias chicharras revoloteando. Nosotras empezamos a gritar. El sonido de las alas era fuerte y nos asustamos. Se nos pararon sobres la cabezas y nosotras como locas nos sacudiamos el cabello con las manos.
Mis padres no paraban de reir y mi mamá que sabian de nuestra aficion por capturar chicharras, nos dijo.
—Es que las chicharras se estan vengando del susto que ustedes les hacen pasar cuando las capturan. No crean que no me he dado cuenta que se estan montando en los árboles.
—Mi madre no sé como, aunque sospecho que la vecina le iba con el chisme, siempre se enteraba de todo.
Por fin las chicharras se fueron volando y pudimos avanzar. Pero desde ese día solo las veíamos en los árboles y las dejabamos tranquilas. Comprendimos que no teníamos derecho a molestarlas. Ellas tenían una vida y una misión.
A los pocos dias comenzamos a ver los cuerpos de las chicharras recubiertos con un polvito blanco.
—Ya se están muriendo. —Nos dijo mi madre.
—Pobrecitas duran tan pocos días,—aquello me parecía injusto.
En ese momento no sabía que las chicharras pasan la mayor parte de su vida, muchos años, bajo tierra y que cuando salen lo hacen para reproducirse y morir.
Pero hacen algo mas que para mí sigue siendo mágia. Ellas nos anuncian como las mas seguras meteorológas, la llegada de las lluvias.
Y asi era, casi al mismo tiempo que las chicharras morian, despues de poner sus huevos en las ramitas de los árboles para dar comienzo a un nuevo ciclo de vida, la humedad del aire cambiaba y el cielo se cubría de nubarrones grises que descargaban el agua con fuerza sobre mi ciudad.
Y aún hoy que vivo en otra ciudad donde casi no las escucho cantar, cuando lo hago me emociona y las busco en los troncos y ramas de los árboles, no las veo, pero estoy segura que ellas están anunciando que las tan esperadas lluvias, pronto llegaran.
La traducción al inglés lo realicé en www.deepl.com
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How wonderful! I was thrilled to read your text because it reminded me of my childhood, climbing trees to catch all kinds of little animals and put them in a glass bottle of mayonnaise. I didn't know about the cicada's life cycle. Nature really has its own magic. Greetings, friend
I'm so glad you liked the story and that it brought back those memories. It's just that as children we were curious about insects and that was our way of seeing them up close.
I really appreciate your comment @nancybriti1, may this be a blessed day 🦋
Childhood memories are somehow strongly clear despite the pass of time. I guess that's where nostalgia attacks us the most, doesn't it?😅
Thank you very much and have a happy day ✨️You are absolutely right my friend @gbmr. Those memories are not forgotten. They are good and make us nostalgic when they come back.
I really love the story you've shared, a beautiful nostalgic piece about childhood memories, cicadas, and the arrival of the rains.
Well done!!!
Thank you very much @tranquil3 for your comment. That's right, it was the nostalgia of listening to the cicadas that made me write this story.
Greetings and happy day
Our parents always know what we are doing, because they didn't talk doesn't mean they don't know. hahaha.
I also caught insects during my childhood, I wish I knew they had purpose and deserve to be left to live and fulfill their purposes too.
Greetings 🥰
That's right @emreal, mothers have a special intuition.
I think it is a natural curiosity of children for insects, but what you say is very important, to know that every living being has its mission on earth.
I really appreciate your comment. Regards ✨️
Thank you so much @theinkwell ✨️