'A Symphony of Crickets'

The swamp reeked of peat and rain. Remy supposed, as he pushed the little boat off from the dock, that if he didn’t have a good reason, he wouldn’t have returned to this place. He might have grown up in this bayou, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Too many summers spent dodging alligators, too many mosquito bites and ticks, too many near-misses with snapping turtles as he played with his little sister in the yard. Through his musings, Remy could make out the setting sun past the trees, brilliant red and suspended like a red disk among the clouds.


Red sky at night, sailor’s delight, Remy thought.

The bayou hadn’t changed since he’d been fifteen, except there was certainly more water. The frogs croaked loud and outraged, and he could almost make out words in their calls: ‘Too, deep, too, deep, too, deep.’ Stephen King would have a field day here, he imagined.

If there’s one thing he has missed, it’s the sounds. The swamp may smell bad and be filled with animals that want him dead, but Remy likes the sounds. The soft flowing of water, the bullfrogs and their song, the dirge of cicadas, and a symphony of crickets. Altogether the sounds make a song of opposites, a beautiful train wreck, offensive and calming in its volume and tune.

Fireflies dot his vision as he floats gently through the water, thoughts of his childhood drifting much like the water beneath the boat. Catching frogs with Marie, fireflies lighting up in a jar beside his bed, drying off by a fire while his father snickered at how Remy’s hair was always messy, no matter how hard his mother tried to make it lie flat.

Remy’s boat lands at an old, rickety dock on a little hummock of land. The ground is moss-covered and wet, and on the crest of the hill sits a dingy little shack, weatherworn and lacking much in aesthetics. The roof is patched; the walls are curved and cracked in places, the stilts that keep it up need to be replaced. Despite all this, light spills out from the windows and cracks in the door, and there is lively jazz oozing from within the home. Remy smiles and knocks on the door.

The door opens and reveals a wizened old woman, curved and wrinkled, wearing massive bifocals and peering up at him. She lets out a shout of joy at the sight of him and bursts into manic, speedy French.

“Remy! Mon amour, mon fils! Vous êtes à la maison,” she reaches up and takes his face in her hands, beaming at him.

“Maman, je suis à la maison.”

Remy falls asleep that night to a symphony of crickets, lulling him into an old and secretly missed feeling of childhood.