It had become a nightly ritual. As I brought clothes into the bathroom for a shower before I went to bed, I saw you in a twisted ball, quickly maneuvering back into your web. So quickly did you take up your spot, then perfectly immobile and poised like a portrait, that it seemed you had heard me coming. It was as if you were trying to make it appear that you hadn’t relinquished your post, and were hastening to be back by the time I returned. My attention was immediately drawn once again to the window, and there you were.
With such ease, such stealth, and then still as a statue, like one of those ornate pins I purchased in Europe in the 1980s, the round abdomen made of colored glass, or fashioned of silver with tiny rhinestones embedded in the metal. I was so fascinated with those glamorous insects, I started a small collection.
It’s eerie how you come and go with my own movements. You stand watch while I shower, and as I’m getting out and preparing for bed, you scurry off for a while, having fulfilled your service, temporarily off duty.