I never kill them. Spiders, that is. Even though I’ll forever be known as the Girl Who Killed Ants (that’s a long story), never ever will you find me harming a spider found in the house. On the contrary, you might find me instead shrieking “Don’t kill it!” as I run over with the softest of tissues to cradle its little body until I can deposit it outside. Safe.
There is one who visits me, quite often, as I sit at my desk, announcing itself with a flutter in my peripheral vision, never venturing close enough to frighten me, careful not to stay too long. An ideal guest.
“A spider is the sign of a happy house,” my mother always said. A sign, or an insurance policy, which explains my zealous protection of them when found.
Sometimes I think it’s her, in the same way I’ve always felt my beloved stepmother watched over me all these years. My ghosts are lovely ones, loving ones, my spidery muses.