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There is a fly buzzing around.  This would not be all that noteworthy were it not for the fact that it is the dead of winter and I usually don’t see flies at this time of year. 

It distracts me from my book.  I watch its random flight.  It stops on the ceiling fan pull, on the curtains, on the TV screen.  It flies to each corner of the room and in the cold light I see a spider’s web both it and I have avoided. 

I now watch the web, seeing a small black speck move from the top of the crown molding into the heart of the web.  It seems to be checking its work, shoring up some loose threads and I haven’t the heart to brush it all away.

I remember suddenly sitting with my brother in the farmhouse we rented when I was a child.  I was two or so, my brother was four.  We sat with our legs dangling through the rails on the attic staircase landing.  I am not sure what we were doing up there, watching something or someone down below.  I don’t remember now.

What I do remember is the thin rays of sunlight falling on the top of the banister.  I remember watching the dust dance in the light and laughing.  My brother was making me laugh and I giggled until I opened my mouth in peels of belly laughs.

It was at this moment, he reached down between the rails, brought up a four year old’s fist full of spider webs and dead flies and shoved them into my open, laughing mouth. 

There was nothing malicious intended in the act.  As he spoke to me, his fingers found the dandelion fluff like webbing and he had played with it, gathering it all up.  He only wanted to see what I would do. 

I gagged, tears of surprise stinging my eyes.  I fumbled getting up, trying to swallow back my gag reflex without swallowing the contents of my mouth.  I remember finding my way to the sink in the bathroom and jamming a bar of Zest soap in my mouth. 

My brother followed me, watching me wash my mouth out with soap.  He was not sure if he should be sorry or pleased as soap bubbles released themselves from my lips and floated upwards. 

Sitting in my living room, book in hand, I shudder at the memory.  I can still remember the softness of the web on my tongue, the small nuggets of flies, shriveled and abandoned along with the snare. 

This moment sums up life with my brother – laughing and crying.  Each moment seems to be tinged with almost equal parts horror and euphoria. 

I consider the web in the corner of the room again and again, I reject the idea to wipe it away.  Perhaps tomorrow, may be the next day.  Today I will choose to leave it alone.  May be the spider will luck out now that it has repaired the silk and the fly that is so carelessly buzzing around will be brunch. 

Smiling, I turn back to my book.

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