| It was your way. You loved everything living. You told me the story of St. Kevin, sealed away from men and thinking on God in the Wicklow Mountains, how he awoke one morning, as the wind shook the silver foil of the lake, to find a blackbird had built her nest in his palm. What did he do? He didn't move for three weeks, watching with pleasure - despite the agony in his arm - as the eggs trembled and broke and the fledglings grew into flight. How many times did you save enraged wasps from the perplexing glass? How many crawling things did you whisk to safety from my kitchen, rescued from my fear? You stopped traffic once for a slowworm. You donated your blood to mosquitoes, smilingly, carrying their bites like badges. I've never had your strength. I've never had the courage to be so gentle. Gently, knowing I shouldn't, I reach to the floor and pick up my magazine. I sit on the edge of the bed and breathe. The spider is very still, I calculate distance and throw the magazine on top of it. The magazine falls with a soft thump. I stare intently at the beautiful face smiling from the cover. Then, tissue in hand, expecting an electric ripple of revulsion, I lift the magazine from the carpet. The spider is crushed. I shudder with relief: it cannot have survived this. To be certain, I touch one of its legs with the magazine's spine. I cry out: the spider is alive. It lifts itself to its fullness, very quickly, and runs for the wall. We both retreat. And then, looking at it, I lose the will to destroy it. I go to my knees and peer at it, unafraid. It rocks slowly on its shanks, a tent frame without a canvas, sensitive even to the slightest breeze. Its central and longest legs stroke and taste the air, caressing the walls. I pick it up in my hand. I can only just feel it. A leg like a whisker reaches through my fingers. I go down stairs, groping in the dark. I can hear the wind-lashed world outside, raging to break in. Drawing back the curtain, I open the front door. The cold and the rain assault me, pulling at my hair and my nightdress. The warm air within blends and submits to the cold night. I let the spider go. I think perhaps it is lovely. |