Our first fall. Ice. Rain. Both.  I have been angry at the world. I have trouble stomaching it.  I have trouble working and putting my pride aside.  I seethe as I work. I pick up buckets with rage. I push carts with depression. I fight the urge to act out and I hope for the change of seasons.  But then I get home. I walk with Piskoff under the falling leaves.  Oranges, reds, Yellows—we enjoy pointing them out.  I breathe in the cold air and the beauty around me. I think of where our life may lead. How many falls will we see? The evening turns to ice, so I return and our bed is warm, and you are smiling.  And I think,

“I love the fall. I would stay here forever.”

We’re married and poor and I’m watching you shop in the frozen aisle from our cart.  I watch you move. I watch you think—your brow doing that funny thing it does when you ask yourself a question, trying to save that one dollar that could preserve us for another month. I’ve watched for some time now. From the first time I looked down at our fingers woven together on that roller coaster, to the time I saw you standing on that street in Pleasanton, to the moment I saw you smiling in that white dress. We worry more than we did then, if our past selves could believe it. I watch and I watch, and though I am not always in focus, not always quite right in the head—I am always in awe of you. My life-mate. My partner. A beautiful woman, indeed.  You worry much but, I tell you, you are fine in life, and you are great already, and if I died tomorrow, I want you to know that I consider you the finest person I ever met in the world, and I would count myself lucky to have known you as long as I did.

She set the plates down on the table and I fetched the forks. We shared an orange juice and each had a coffee of our own. We drank coffee throughout most mornings. I thanked her for the food and kissed her on her forehead. She began eating.  “Oh. Babe," I said, chewing on the potatoes slowly, "It’s perfect." She nodded and continued eating. I always said that, and I always meant it. I felt a drip on my bare foot and looked down to my left. There sat our dog, drool pouring from both corners of his mouth, his eyes sad and wanting. I finished my plate and got seconds, and then let him have a few potatoes. He ate them in flash, licking his lips, and asking with his eyes for more.  I gave him some and he did the same, as if he never got the first batch.  I laughed and shook my head, but then worried that I was the same as him.

 The young spider worked from birth. He climbed to the top of gargantuan structures he never thought about.  He leapt a massive gap so that he may have a better life. He fell far, lowering himself back down to the earth, running there into old spider friends who said he was a madman and that all that climbing would lead to nothing, and then he climbed again, never giving those other spiders or their words a second thought.  The young spider did not know fear. He only knew his dreams.  He connected the lines and began his masterpiece. He wove for days, hanging on for dear life every time a breeze flew or the rain fell or some giant unwittingly walked past him.  It was hard work, and a hard life, but his web caught the flies other spiders living lower never saw. He ate well and grew strong so that when his web was destroyed in the storm, he could climb again. This time, he would go higher, and work harder than he ever did before.