'Cicadas' by Emma Phillips

That whole cicada summer was over in a wing beat; the petrol blue bob of the dragonfly’s tail skimmed the surface of the pond, then disappeared in the time it took your grandmother to lay her teacup on the table. Its impatient hum was the last thing she would hear. As she held the cup to her lips, a single bead of sweat fell, gaining momentum in the second that followed, with the force of unshed tears.

That whole cicada summer was over in a wing beat; your brother swatting at a fly that landed on his knee as he tried to untangle his kite strings. Its tar black body drifted in and out of focus and he almost shooed it off; the tickle of its legs the last thing he would feel. When they found him, the hand he rested in the small of your back the first day you rode your bike was held upright in unlanded slaps.

That whole cicada summer was over in a wing beat; your mother sewing buttons onto your uniform like tiny hard backed beetles; your father gone so long she’d forgotten how to look for him and trained her eyes on the water instead, seeking her own reflection. Her needle darted in and out of the coarse blue fabric like a fish weaving through buttonholes. She was the only one who noticed the plane, that insect like glide before it opened its abdomen was the last thing she would ever see.