jam jar spider
When the end was near, and I knew I wouldn’t be around much longer, I laid a jar on its side and lured a spider in.
Once it crawled in I screwed the lid on and locked it in an undeserved prison. I realized quickly it would suffocate and threw the lid away.
Every day it spun silk tessellations, from morning coffee to the flick of the last light switch. It weaved a piece of art I didn’t deserve inside a jam jar I got on sale. It wasn’t even raspberry, or strawberry. It was cherry, the weird one you try once when your serotonin is low and end up hating.
The web was intricate and beautiful and i watched it fill almost the whole jar with this fine mesh net. I left it out in the rain one morning and somehow the web survived, rain drops buttoned to the strands. It was sturdy and delicate. It had pain pinned to it and push through.
The web was nearly complete. Only a few threads fell in the night and needed to be fixed up. But the thoroughness of the design made my skin itch and face sweat.
It was maddening — something so insignificant could spin silken proof of evolution inside a piece of garbage and I couldn’t even force myself to brush my teeth or keep living. I snagged a twig from the road and twirled it around inside the jar, the web rolling up hastily around it like cotton candy. I ruined it, swift, over. And without a moments remorse over effort lost, life continued, as it does.