Arachnophobia

Tree Crabs

I have become the unlikely Protector of the Spiny Orb Weaver

There’s a tiny tree crab suspended, in the morning sun, between my crepe myrtles. Like me, she crochets — yarn bombing the trees, sometimes. Yarn bombing my husband’s face, Sometimes.

She weaves intricate, lacy doilies And lays them out, delicate, awaiting breakfast. She does not like my coffee. This is good.

My unlikely little friend has learned — or passed down knowledge to her kin — to weave somewhat above the level of the human face.

Where once upon a time, I would have seen her, crouched within concentric circles, overhead, and yelled, “Kill it, kill it, kill it!!” I now stand staunch guard, a friend. My husband, doing yard work, is allowed to move her, gently, with a stick. She does not seem to mind rebuilding.

Arachnophobic as I am, I tell myself that she is not one of the spiny orb-weaver, Gasteracantha cancriformis, clan. For I knew others of her kind once upon a time, and not so long ago. Reclusive, hobos — not so gentle. Not so kind.

But bit by bit and year by year we’ve built our trust, and do no harm. We take our breakfast, silent, in the sun.

I know this, though — I see her, who and what she is.

And she sees me.