Orb Weaver Spider Catcher

On a late summer afternoon, I arrange my six-year-old’s body on a quilt in our small backyard. I ease myself slowly down to rest beside him; I am exhausted from his medical care and tending to his baby sister. His disability nearly paralyzes his body, so I lift his soft arm and scoot myself in closer to hear his sweet, slurred voice. We lie side by side, looking up into the Japanese maples. I hold his hand and we talk about the coming school year. He is excited about what he will learn in first grade, especially in science. 

Lucas is so good at taking in the world. He isn’t passive, just patient. Attentive. We watch the play of dappled light. I’m not sure how much he sees, given his visual impairment, but I take the moment to look around. I love the plants that thrive back here—wild strawberries, sword ferns in the shade, peach-orange roses that bloom against the sunny side of the whitewashed garage. I see sunlit orb webs around the yard.  

“It’s spider season,” I tell him, and I count half a dozen webs. 

“I want to see!” he demands. I tilt his head, but he can’t see any of the webs, much less the spiders. As usual, he is unrelenting. “I want to seeeee!” 

When he was smaller, his dad or I would have lifted him up to the web, using our trunks, arms, hands, every part of our bodies to cradle his soft, jellyfish body. But he’s grown, and those days of lifting him up to see are over. My partner is stronger than I, but still, we’ve both been quietly grieving the losses that come with Lucas’s growing body. Not Lucas, though. He still thinks we can do anything.  

“I want to seeeeeeee!” 

Despite the medical gear, the constant waiting for us to get him what he wants, the tube that helps him breathe, I rarely try to imagine Lucas in a different body. He doesn’t wish for another kind of existence, so I try not to either. But I imagine that if he were a mobile kid, he’d be the kind to turn over every rock, gather the potato bugs, the centipedes, the worms and ants and everything that makes its life in the soil. If he could, he would be the kid with the bug jar, trapping bees and spiders and moths and wasps to admire and then let go. Since he cannot do any of that himself, I will. 

I’ve always liked the idea of spiders: the way they quietly catch flies; the way the webs in high corners make me think of Charlotte and her love for Wilbur. But the thought of them quietly crawling across my hand turns my stomach. The thought of letting them move across my arm—simultaneously feeling and not feeling their quick eight-legged movement—makes my skin shiver.  

I rise and move quietly toward the nearest web. The cross orb weaver sits on the outer edge, waiting for prey. She’s not much bigger than a nickel, and when I am close, I can see the gray-brown stripes on her spindle legs. I wish I could preserve the perfectly woven web, but it seems impossible to pick her up without destroying her home. In one fluid movement, I pull my left hand up through the web. The spider drops quickly, like a bungee jumper dangling from a thin strand of silk. I reach down with my right, catching her midair. I intentionally reach out my hand to hold a spider. 

I return to Lucas, gently shaking the spider into his outstretched fingers. He watches, rapt. The spider is the perfect object for him—nearly weightless and moving on her own. All he has to do is pay attention. All I have to do is fetch the spider each time she drops and tries to escape. The spider saunters cautiously along Lucas’s small fingers, wrapping around the back. Lucas twists his wrist, keeping the tiny spider within view. His weak muscles make his small movements slow and gentle. After my clumsy home-wrecking, I hope the spider can feel how safe she is in my child’s soft hand. 

Krista Lee Hanson (she/her) lives in Seattle, Washington, home of the Coast Salish people, with her partner and two children. Krista is currently an MFA student at the Rainier Writing Workshop at PLU, and her writing has appeared in The Rumpus, The Normal School, and The Write Launch, among other publications. Krista is also an organizer, embodiment teacher, and brand-new dragon boat paddler. Lucas is now in high school, and he is also a writer.   

This essay is a Short Reads original.