March 03, 2003 - 9:47 a.m.
In the neighborhood where I grew up, every summer we were visited by the "June Bugs." Some years there weren't so many. In others, the yard was thick with them. I never thought to ask by what proper name these beetles were called or why we called them June Bugs when they invariably showed up in July. But for a week or two every year we could count on them buzzing about in the Virginia heat. And then they would go, flying off to God knows where, leaving little delicate molds of themselves attached to the trees.
I never watched a June Bug in the molting process but I was fascinated by the shell they left behind. At a glance it looked like a pale bug clinging to the tree bark, but what once animated it was missing. It was a perfect echo of what it once was, now hollow inside - a fragile thing that could crumble away in your hand.
It was just after the June Bugs left one year that our next door neighbor died suddenly. He had had heart problems in the past. He had changed his diet and swam laps twice a day. But, in the end, his efforts couldn't overcome the past damage.
I guess I was about 11 at the time and my father decided I was old enough to discuss death without any glossing over. As we sat at the funeral home, Dad asked "Do you know that's not really Mr. S- in there? It's his body but what was him inside it is gone.
"What they're burying is only his shell."
