Last year my parents sent a dead bug for my birthday:
It’s a cicada, my favorite insect! The cicada is a symbol of Provence, thought to bring happiness. Maybe there is truth to that, as the 17-year Magicicada hatch during my childhood is one of my fondest memories. (I might have been a strange child.)
I’m still a little obsessed. We discovered some molting cicadas during a summer visit to our favorite Texas Hill Country retreat, and I took a couple dozen photos. Or maybe a little more than that.
That’s a ceramic bud vase, also a gift from my parents. It hangs on the wall (or it did in our last house; we haven’t quite finished decorating since we moved to Texas). I even had a pretty tablecloth with a white cicada design, but I sent it away with the table that it fit.
I have a couple silly cicada items as well, including a vintage cicada keychain that makes a horrible noise and flashes its green LED eyes when you squeeze it. You’d be surprised at how difficult it is to find such treasures anymore. I’m just glad someone out there shares my obsession.
