The Wetlands

When I was in elementary school I lived in a yellow farm house next to grassy wetlands. They inspired adventure in me. Birds flitted about, mice hurried, and spiders quietly spun their webs among tree branches. Ants crawled along blades of grass and moles made tiny mountains in the dirt. The wetlands were brushed with long, thick grass with spit bugs’ spittle near the tip. It was dense and provided a barrier between the mud and my feet. Mice and other little creatures created round corridors in the grass near the ground. Pheasants roamed slowly, as if hesitant to put their foot down after picking it up.  One occasionally left a precious tailfeather for me. The brown-striped, long, tapered feathers were a valuable treasure. A grey sky did not dampen the excitement of the wetlands; it brought the scent of nearing rain and a breeze to move breathily through the grass. The wild plant and animal life tugged at me as if I were a string.

Jesse and I dressed for the occasion in long sleeves and long pants; his cargo pants were better protection against the grass while I met the minimum requirements in pink knit. Our elderly neighbor, Jack, was out tending to his daffodils across the driveway as we began our routine. We examined the spit bugs, flattened paths through the grass, and built dens to play in by crawling in circles. We made our way to the center of the wetlands, where the grass was shorter. A few sticks and broken branches from nearby, small trees lay about on the ground. We played with the sticks, creating the kinds of stories only young children can.

I lifted my left arm, and a fat, cruel spider resting on the edge of my sleeve slammed our pretend story shut. Its bulbous, yellow and black rear end blocked its face from my sight. I weakly called for Jesse twice,. He, who always made fun of me for being afraid of spiders (as all big brothers must do to little sisters), let his mouth fall open and did not dare to approach. With a five-foot stick he tried to squish it right on me. He missed. I watched the spider’s globular butt slip under the edge of my sleeve, and I was filled with a deep, frantic dread I had never known. I was old enough to be embarrassed by nakedness, but I pulled my shirt off. 

I ran home half naked and crying, clutching my shirt to my chest, hoping the neighbor wouldn’t see me. My mother did her work. She examined me with the scrutiny of a surgeon to see if the spider was still in the shirt or on me. She declared me safe and put my shirt through the wash. A few days later I looked at the pretty pink shirt folded neatly in the drawer. It was my favorite, and I wanted so badly to wear it. I looked through it and the spider was not there. But I imagined that somehow that fat spider was still in it, waiting to creep out and bite me or crawl over my skin. The shirt had to go to the second hand store. Many days since the incident I stood at the edge of the wetlands: my heart longed to crawl through the grass, to discover little creatures and flowers, and to play scientist with my brother. But that stupid spider crept into my mind. Admiring the Queen Anne’s lace at the edge would have to do.