During my morning climbs to the top of the stairs, there was a black widow spider that built its web at the bottom of the access door to the top of the building.
For the last seven or eight months every morning, I would see it before it would see me and scurry under the door. Some days she would remain motionless as if to say, "Oh, it's you again."
Our encounters were brief.
"Good morning, little lady."
Now, I don't like black widows, but this one was different. It somehow found its hope at the top of the stairwell. Isolated from the world. Maybe didn't see the light of day. There was no mate for her. She was small. Didn't have the large abdomen like other black widows I had seen. I assume food was scarce. I once thought of bringing crickets for her to kill and eat. I didn't do that.
Last night or this morning, someone had killed it. Her body smashed against the wall. Tragic ending to an innocent life.
I placed her remains in one of the flower gardens where she will be able to see the sunrise. Maybe for the first time. If not in life, at least in death.
I will miss our encounters at the top of the stairwell.
I will continue to wish her, "Good morning, Little Lady," each time I ascend to the top floor in her memory.
So long, little black widow.
