As I was preparing for my daughter’s portfolio review, I realized I needed a folder for her writing activities. So I began looking through the box of folders under one of our beds.
I chanced upon a huge three-ring binder which I bought to compile my manuscripts.
I didn’t get around to doing that. Things happened, you know.
There, in silent repose, was a dead spider hanging on its own web around the metal lever.
I pity that spider.
If I had opened that box and compiled my work sooner, that spider might have not suffered that fate, or at least, died in the garden, where spiders should die.
It’s just not right that spiders, or dreams, should die like that.