Elvira
for Ruby Carat
She captured my
heart the instant I saw her. She was a long-legged dark beauty with
orange highlights in her hair. She was attempting to cross a busy
road against murderous traffic and I knew I had to act fast. Braking
hard, I swerved my truck to the side of the road, jammed on the
parking brake, launched myself from the door, and ran to her
mid-road. I threw my hands to the sky. Traffic came to an abrupt
halt. The busy travelers waited, confused but patient.
Alarmed at my
approach, she halted her delicate gait. I fell down on my knees,
placed my hand upon the black pavement and contrasting yellow lines
and waited. Then, slowly she continued her progression, placing first
one, then two, three, four and finally all eight legs of her black
and tan and orange hairy beauty into the care of my palm. Her common
name was tarantula but I dubbed her Elvira, the dark and mysterious.
She froze in my
hand. I raised her to be admired. She appeared relaxed and
unthreatened. She worried me little, as I've see many of her family
before. Most people shudder in horror at their sight. But I find
their slow ambling walk through the brush, in contrast to the speedy
zipping of most every other creature, to invite a relaxed
contemplation. I can understand the horror they strike in the
uninformed. They appear as two hands sewn together such that the
eight fingers work to propel and the thumbs are transformed to fangs.
Small but threatening, people see them as a transgression against
nature, a thing to be crushed. Though feared and hated, they too have
their small purpose in life.
I saw through
the windshield of the nearest vehicle the gap-jawed astonished faces
and heard a polite reminding toot from a horn of the passage of time.
The impatient crushing wheels needed to continue their work further
down the road. So I stepped to the roadside and held her aloft to
allow the curious to admire and the vexed to curse. As the parade
passed, some laughed, some squealed, some saluted with the middle
finger. Then we were alone.
The low sun and
wind in the brush told me the day was waining. Carrying her to the
fence-line, her original destination, I gently lowered her to the
earth. She hesitated in my hand for a moment, until a gentle tickling
with a finger urged her to continue her migration. I watched as she
made her slow circuitous, progression through the brush and weeds
toward some distant, unknown objective. Where was she going? Was she
in search of food, a new home, a mate? Or was she simply following
some indecipherable plan devised by nature? I watched until she was
obscured. Then I turned to my truck, where it patiently awaited my
return.
