To the Tiny Spider That Came With Us From Brooklyn

It was the briefest slice of light, a telltale shimmer, that revealed you. It glinted up your thread, running down from the ceiling to the lamp sitting incongruous in the middle of an unpacked living room. Did you stow away in that lamp, riding rough in the back of the moving van, those three long evening hours? I hope you did. You deserve this space as much as we do.

I remember when you lost your home. I watched you build the little criss-cross tangle in the window of the bathroom. Being no aficionado of the octolegged, our détente was unexpected, but your tiny, furry efforts charmed us. Your abode grew and filled with gnats, and you were sated. How crude its destruction: A hundred-year-old ceiling collapsing over the sill, undoing in an instant months’ of your delicate, inscrutable weaving. Is that when you went to the lamp? Is that when you hid away from the world to find respite?

How ignoble to be then carted to another land! Yet you persevered. I saw your little experiments as you unfolded into new space along with us. So much more freedom than the mean and cluttered walls in a corner of the cruel city. Here there were choices. A spare and elegant web in the corner of a living room. A dainty line, lazily looped over freshly shelved and dusted books. I hope you found the familiar in the things that expanded into our new home, as we integrated the baggage and evidence of an old life into a new one. Here a chair, finally free to roll across an unobstructed floor. There a guitar, no longer languishing in the dark corner of a shallow closet. Have you seen the outlets? There are so many outlets! Nary a questionable chain of power strips in sight. Have you seen that video of giant spider legs sticking out of an outlet? It haunts me.

I hope our cat does not kill you. I’m optimistic: Pineapple’s hunting instincts are best illustrated by the fact that she once batted a mouse into the apartment from the garden and seemed to consider the mission accomplished. I pointed out in her annual review that this is the exact opposite of the duties specified in her contract, but she was asleep. You have little to fear.

I’ve seen other tiny spiders around, and I do hope you’re making friends. I’m not sure how spiders make friends, but then I’m not sure how humans make friends in the suburbs. We don’t commute and we don’t have children. I suppose we should bake some cookies for Christmas. There’s a jewelry making class nearby. Our neighbors are either sending their children to college or said children, leaving a two decade gap on both sides of our own life experience. We have neither the energy of youth nor the contentment of old age.

I suppose moving to the suburbs is a kind of midlife crisis for people who have lived in the city for so long. It’s hard to tell, since the modern era decided to have its own midlife crisis and it’s difficult to pick out emotional cause and effect in a global maelstrom.

Oh, listen to me, going on about myself. You’ve only a handful of years to worry about anyway. I’m only guessing; researching your kind is difficult for me since the pictures started popping up automatically. But I wish you well in your autumn years. It’s as much your home as ours. True, we were the ones that spent a year fighting a housing market gone mad and filled with the petty kingdoms of would-be AirBnB slumlords and move-fast-and-break-things real estate companies offering cash sight unseen. And yes, we were the ones that cut our life savings in half to put in an absurdly high downpayment. And we’re the ones who have to mow the lawn. We’re not very good about it. I don’t know if you can help with that. We’re open to discussion if you’re feeling generous.

We believe there is space for all creatures that aren’t cockroaches in our home. Be they neighbors or friends, deadbeat cats or spiders less than one centimeter across. I’m happy you’re taking this journey with us.

Best,

Pete

P.S. I found your egg sacs and set all your children on fire.

Feel the burn.