When I was young, I once got in trouble and had to stand in the corner. Ok, probably more than once. But on one occasion, there was a spider in the corner and I begged to be allowed to leave. I’m pretty sure I cried too. Instead of reducing my sentence or granting me clemency, my father grabbed my hand and put it in the spider’s web. I howled and cried, squirmed and ran. To this day, I’m not a huge fan of spiders. I know they’re beneficial and eat other bugs, but they’re just not my jam.
For the past week, I’ve had a small spider hanging out under the window sill by the kitchen sink. She usually hung out in plan view, her tiny spindly body suspended in front of the white scalloped trim. Being older and wiser and more accepting of the natural world, I tolerated this and tried to stay out of her way. If I clanged too much, she would retreat a little further under the sill, but she always came back out. I got used to seeing the spider there. I’d say, “hello little spider” as I filled the coffee pot with water or rinsed the syrup from my breakfast plate. Yesterday afternoon, while doing some heavy cooking and also some dishes, she descended onto the back of a plate that was drying and leaning against the wall under the sill. I tried to move it so that she might recoil to her spot, but she only crawled further and closer to me. That crossed a line. Down the drain she went. I’ve felt bad about this ever since – an overreaction. something I can’t take back. I’d apologize if I could. I can’t. This morning, there was no spider to greet me, no tiny little ball and legs, and the world seemed a little less full because of that.