My chin rested on your knee, sat on the floor silently. You were to leave in 10 minutes. I think that was the last time we really loved. More specifically I really loved. It’s 4:37 AM, Saturday June 17th and I am wondering a few things. First, and most importantly, where do spiderwebs go? When we squish little bugs under our feet, under our fingers, with slippers and books and rolled up New Yorker magazines. Where do their homes go? The hours of commitment and line-work, spun from the marble-shaped bodies of 8-legged creeps. When I wondered this 2 hours ago, I tried to find an answer. I found out the following.
- Spiders remake their webs all the time. Not for any particular reason, I think. Sometimes they’ll remake them hours, days, weeks later. I wonder if they’re restless like me. If they walk the lines of their silk webs with a constant discontent. If maybe they just yearn for a change of scenery that their small bodies cannot catch up with.
- I get why that little girl in the cabin at the camp I work at cried when I crushed a daddy-long leg with a pink slipper and also why everyone else cheered. I now know why she sat in the floor next to it with inconsolable tears asking “What about his mommy? What if he had a girlfriend and babies and friends?”
So I’m still sitting here, wondering. What happens to spiderwebs? Where do spiderwebs go? What happened to the web we spun together? What happened after you left 10 minutes later and I rested in that same spot, your knee missing as my headrest? What happened to toothy smiles and walmart walks and shed tears and drunk phone calls? Where did our webs go?