I love crickets. Last night, I noticed the single song of a lone cricket outside my Chicago apartment. Again, his voice is amplified in the alley tonight, calm and steady as a healthy heart beat. It’s relaxing.
My second-story windows capture traffic noises from blocks away and flights high above, yet his voice slices through the midwestern summer night air. Hearing the cricket’s comforting call with the sighting of the new moon coincidentally marks the beginning of the Islamic New Year. It’s a good sign. The month of Muharram, the most sacred month of The Almighty God, is fatefully honored by this cricket. I love crickets.
I’m reminded to be hopeful and optimistic, as carefree and adventurous as the child I once was, capturing crickets in the tall grasses of an undeveloped Milwaukee suburb. Those grassy fields have long been replaced by sprawling pavement and family homes. Where did all the crickets go?
Not to worry, the lone song is strong and confident. The crickets ...