The Shoe Doesn’t Fit
M.J. Loria
Last spring, I spent an afternoon weeding in the garden before a heavy rainstorm rolled in. I worked diligently and swiftly, pulling the clods of weeds from earth surrounding my unkempt hostas. A neighbor glanced over, observing the small piles of tangled weeds that I’d constructed, evenly spread along my brick walkway. I imagined to myself that she was thinking “Finally that shut-in is dealing with the garden. About time.” My neighbor’s yard is so tidy despite the rest of her life seeming quite the opposite. Appearances are confusing. I looked to the sky as tumbling clouds sauntered in with a low, continuous growl of thunder echoing behind them. I glanced back down to admire my work and to gather my tools, eager to casually toss them on my rusty porch chair. As I grabbed my trowel, I noticed a small set of eyes looking back at me. A beautiful jumping spider with metallic, bright aqua chelicerae peeking from behind fuzzy, black and white pedipalps. My heart sank as I realized I’d destroyed his home just before the heavy rains began. I apologized to him. I took a few photos. We studied each other. I wondered why he didn’t seem more afraid. It occurred to me that I could find a container that could protect him from the storm and I darted to my china cabinet. I saw the hollow porcelain clog I’d snagged from my grandmother’s house last minute, just before she donated what was left. Perfect. He could build a bed in the toe, hidden from everything. The white porcelain would keep the house from getting too hot. My spider friend could have the finest crib in the garden. Spider was waiting for me when I returned. I carefully nestled the clog on its side near his body. The sky started to spit and I went inside, proud of myself. A couple of days later, I checked on the porcelain home and Spider was in there! He stretched his way out of a silk 28 Etchings