spiderweb

On the middle shelf of the cabinet, the glass of the left hand door is not as transparent as the rest. A hint of iridescence coalesces into specks of mirrored silver and edges of reddish stain.

Behind that acne-ridden glass pane are many shards of glass: several small fragments like eggshell, two tubular sections. These are arrayed on top of a discoloration in the wood shelf, reddish, like dried blood.

Seven thick strands of spider silk lead from the edges of the glass shards to the back of the cabinet, to the bottom of the shelf above. A minor orb weaver must have gotten into the cabinet. Across these support threads spirals a triskaidecagon.

It has been years since I had noticed the spiderweb in the cabinet that Corin kept meticulously arranged and clean. At the time I asked her about it. “I have no idea how it occurred. Late one night the Torricelli barometer shattered of its own accord. In a lack of judgment, I resolved to clean up the mess in the morning, but didn’t get to it until afternoon; when I looked, the spiderweb was there.”
She became thoughtful, “It is in the nature of a spider to build a web … I could not bring myself to clean it up.”

Last week I peered through the scarred glass pane. I realized, again, that the spider had not anchored its web to the cabinet door, so I opened it. The web is as perfect as I recall, even glowing with silver moonlight. A few of the strands near the center seemed thicker, heavier. I blinked a couple times as I realized those strands form the characters כתר.

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