Premature

I don't know why this memory stuck with me.
When I was younger, much younger, I found a cicada, stuck to a tree, hatching out of its skin. It was caught in a dance of age and life. The shell it was leaving had been split down the middle, a break where soft new parts pushed through. I watched transfixed for a few moments, barely daring to breathe and disturb it. The new skin was shiny and promising, glittering in deep emeralds and browns, bursting from the cloudy, yellowing molting.
I remember lifting a stubby small hand, rising up on my tiptoes to come closer, and poking it. I withdrew quickly, briefly marveling at the steadfastness with which it stuck to the weathered bark. It felt stiff, so dead and so alive at the same time, and I was scared of it. It didn't move and neither did I, just the breeze rustled the uppermost branches of the tree, sending shadows and light scattering across me and my bug.
I breathed open mouthed, and I touched it again, longer this time. I pressed it between my childish fingers. Slowly, and painfully, I pulled it out, cracking off bits of shell,  ripping it in slow motion. Some of its legs tore, still caught in the half-shed skin.
I dropped it then, moderately disgusted, horrified, with a bit of childish satisfaction. Look at what I've done. I dropped it, and it fell to the ground, and lay as motionless as it had been.