Contessa

I have a pet wolf spider.

She lives in the space between my bathroom window and screen.

There is a crack between the screen and the window frame, so she comes in and out of my bathroom as she pleases.

At first I wanted to kill her. A surge of adrenaline rose as I grasped my Croc to rain destruction down upon her. But quick as a wink, she'd skitter back into the refuge between the window and the screen.

My house is old. I've removed screens before, only to discover that the tabs holding them in place are brittle and impossible to replace. The parts are no longer manufactured.

Remove a screen, and I'm left with nothing but a window—nothing standing between my home and the open air, admitting flies and mosquitoes at their pleasure.

I've never liked leaving openings I cannot close.

So alive she remains.

And the longer she inhabits my space, the less her presence alarms me.

The longer she lives, the more acquainted we become.

And the more I ponder it, perhaps having a spider to delicately, silently remove the flies and mosquitoes from our home isn't such a terrible thing.

Now when I see her, I do not move to strike.

And I wonder how many good things God has slipped into my life through openings I never meant to leave.

Now, when I see my spider, Contessa, out of the corner of my eye as I apply my mascara, I dip my chin.