I
missed my chance of being a superhero this afternoon.
Out
walking my dog I come across two red and blue spiders skittering alongside a
hydrant of the same colors. Across soggy pollen that had fallen from the trees
overhead, pollen become brown mush in last night’s rain, the spiders scuttled. One
little bite and I could have been slinging sticky webbing on building sides,
netting crooks like flies and feeding off their displeasure.
But
I don’t get bitten, and nor does my dog.
Instead
of becoming a Red-and-Blue Widow, I wind up with house guests that don’t plan
on leaving. The spiders hopped onboard my dog like he was an expressway,
shifting skins to blend into his tan and white fur. Once home, they departed
the four-legged train and got themselves cozy. The little buggers wouldn’t be
so much a pain if they were like ordinary spiders, spinning webs, catching
other pesky bugs, making themselves useful. No, my color-morphing spiders feed
on dreams.
Pleasant
fantasy or nightmare, my dreams are feasted on.
“Darla,”
I say to myself one morning. “It’s too bad that you can’t be awake to see how
those buggers make a meal out of your dreams. Anything coming from you would
likely need a pinch of salt for flavor.”
I’ve
gotten used to talking to either myself or the dog after my husband’s death.
Both of us make a mite more company than any spirits that may be lurking, bug
or otherwise, and I’m not keen on making ghosts too welcome to know when their
staying license has expired.
My
partly-invisible spiders, though conniving in their approach, do put my dreams
to good use. Camouflaging to the peachy walls and yellow drapes they spin the
treads of my imagination. Spitting out my sucked up dreams and crocheting with
‘em. The dreams form a pulp. Within a day of drying, that pulp becomes paper.
Every
evening, I pluck those pieces of paper down and harness ‘em neat and tidy with
a belt of twine.
Just
how my editor likes ‘em.
