Lanternflies
I tried to recall where my friend had lived in Brooklyn, but everything had changed so much since then, or, otherwise, each block looked the same as the last that I had to admit I didn’t really remember at all.
It was cloudy all weekend, constantly threatening to rain, but still hot and humid enough that sweat rolled down my shins. Someone said that the Hasidim in Williamsburg must be suffering, dressed the way they do, and I thought, weren’t we all though? Right at the edge of the river, skyscrapers were going up, and, for a minute, we couldn’t tell if one of the guys working at the top was yelling hello or help.
The first lanternflies I saw had already been flattened. I was surprised by how big they are and how oddly beautiful—the little flash of red wings right as they take off and flutter out of the path of your shoe. It wasn’t clear that killing them was making a difference. No matter how many we squished, there were always more that flitted just out of reach. Still, we stomped, dutifully. A stranger on the sidewalk cheered us on, shouting, die motherfucker, woooo!
