C is for cicada.

Growing up all I'd see were hollow husks perched along the trunk of my favorite climbing tree in the back yard, backs split open after an arduous climb out of the spongy soil below. I spent hours in that tree studying these empty shells, wondering what on God's Earth could have created such mysterious ghosts. But when my father cut down that tree for no good reason at all the wonder faded, and I grew into womanhood without ever learning what could possibly leave pieces of themselves behind for brokenhearted little girls to find.