August 4, 2012
CJ is busy piling things on the dining room table. Two of my old necklaces. A small wooden chest that he painted as a craft project in kindergarten. A rock. A handful of toys. And the vacuum.
“Whatcha doing, CJ?” I ask.
“Having a yard sale,” he says. ”I need to make money.”
“Well you can’t just have a yard sale spur-of-the-minute,” I say. ”And also, what’s the vacuum doing here?”
He looks at me sideways, but doesn’t answer.
“Were you… going to SELL it?”
He nods. “You never use it,” he says.
July 8, 2012
I wake up, brew a cup of fresh coffee and head outside to sip it on the patio. The stairs leading down from our house are strung with invisible threads that glint in the morning sun. As I walk through, they cling to my arms and legs, trailing behind me as I go.
I sip my coffee and imagine the weaver. A small brown spider who works diligently through the night. If I do it right, I can catch a human and feast forever.
But not this morning. She’ll have to try again tomorrow.