Member-only story
Arachnophobia
Tree Crabs
I have become the unlikely Protector of the Spiny Orb Weaver
There’s a tiny tree crab
suspended, in the morning sun,
between my crepe myrtles.
Like me, she crochets —
yarn bombing the trees, sometimes.
Yarn bombing my husband’s face,
Sometimes.
She weaves intricate, lacy doilies
And lays them out, delicate,
awaiting breakfast.
She does not like my coffee.
This is good.
My unlikely little friend has learned —
or passed down knowledge
to her kin — to weave somewhat
above the level of the human face.
Where once upon a time,
I would have seen her, crouched
within concentric circles, overhead,
and yelled, “Kill it, kill it, kill it!!”
I now stand staunch guard, a friend.
My husband, doing yard work, is allowed
to move her, gently, with a stick.
She does not seem to mind rebuilding.
Arachnophobic as I am, I tell myself
that she
is not one of the spiny orb-weaver,
Gasteracantha cancriformis, clan.
For I knew others of her kind
once upon a time,
and not so long ago. Reclusive, hobos —
not so gentle. Not so kind.
But bit by bit
and year by year
we’ve built our trust, and do no harm.
We take our breakfast, silent, in the sun.
I know this, though —
I see her, who and what she is.
And she sees me.
