Because of the New Birthday Moon tonight,
the stars are full twinkling brilliance.
Later, after the mosquitoes have disappeared,
Stacey and I will go outside and twirl.
“Why did they name you Stacey?” I ask through the screen.
“Mother said a nurse named Stacey helped her
after I was born,” she says. “I was a preemie,
and Mother and Daddy thought I was going to die.”
“But you didn’t, thank goodness,” I say.
“I’m too tough. When I get old,
and am about to go, I’ll kick death so hard
that it will go away.”
That’s another reason I like Stacey.
“How did you get your name?” she asks.
“My dad said that when I was born,
Mama thought I cried like the cicadas’ song—
mee-mee—
and made her think of home. Japan.”
“We have cicadas in Georgia.
I love the sound. It’s a summer sound,”
she says softly, like she misses them, too.
Then I say, “I read there are cicadas
that live in the ground for years.
They’re called magicicadas,
and when they’re ready, they all burst out at once
and fly, blocking out the moon.”
“Mother saw that once,” she says. “I wish we could see them here.”
I look into the part of the sky
where the New Birthday Moon should be,
and say, “They wait until just the right time.”