Lessons From a Spider

A poem about starting over

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

If it all ends
in tears, then how
does it start?

A spider’s web begins
as a single glimmering
thread, its journey
unknown, a series
of practiced steps
right, left, right, left
and a little flicker
of hope, the candle
you didn’t know
was still lit, that a pattern
exists, order pulled
from the chaos, a respite
from madness, a map
to (re)building a home.

Home is where the heart
is, but there’s no manual
for how to rebuild it once
it’s broken, no insurance
policy to make something
once as familiar as the lines
across your palms feel
“like new,” but life beats
on, a perpetual motion drum
pounding out an erratic song
that doesn’t care if you dance
or curl up on your couch and cry.

They say it’s easier to fall
apart than to pick up
the pieces, but the shards
can become anything
you imagine (if you don’t mind
a little blood on the carpet
from the lacerations
on your fingers – nothing
gets built for free).

My efforts to rebuild 
are thwarted by something 
unseen, the one thing 
I wish I could forget, 
a constant reminder 
of your loss. I never knew 
a shadow could take up 
so much space, but at least 
it fills the void where the laughter
used to be, a silent tug to buried 
memories I couldn’t recollect,
the piece of you that lives 
inside my soul, forever mine, 
untouched by the passing 
of time, my own glimmering
thread that I’ll use to start again.

So while it may 
end in tears, 
it’s remembered
with a smile.

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Inspired by the Jack Kerouac quote, “It all ends in tears anyway.”

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