––––––––
When Regina was born there were cobwebs all over her. The hospital staff thought I was babbling, even my husband Michael denied it. Yet the strands were there, covering her like blankets. Plain to see.
As the child nursed I gathered the spider webs in my free hand, clearing them from her face and back. From those precious shoulders. I spun them around my hand until they formed what I hoped would be a mitten, which I would hold up, arm outstretched. I would say, Here. Are you telling me you do not see them now?
Yet before I had the chance the cobwebs melted away, dissolving like cotton candy in water. I had to accept it: once I detached the silk from Regina’s body, I was blind to it, too.
––––––––
Today there is a knock on our apartment door, which was cut from an iron sheet
