The Goings On at the Bottom of our Garden
The Goings On at the Bottom of our Garden
October was ‘suicide month’. The heat and the glare without a breath reverberated with the shrill of cicadas, emanating not from their throats but from the rasp of the membranes on the underside of their tummies, so Mommy said. We thought nothing of it. Relief came in the pool where we made friends with the big frogs and their mates who laid globs of eggs in the night that looked remarkably like the pudding we were regularly served by the custard cupful.
