Dream Weaving

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.