To the spider living in my bathroom,
I see you, and I let you live. And I keep scooping you out of my tub because you’re clumsy. You only have seven legs, after all. You’re a tiny, walking story. Your life isn’t even a fraction of mine and yet you’re still here, pulling yourself along shakily like a little wobbly vagabond.
You hide from my cats, but you seem to like to watch me pee for some reason. Your favorite spot is by the doorstop so I’m careful when I come in and out. You especially like to come out after I’ve showered when the walls are coated in steam.
You’re the tiniest little life that a different person might’ve stepped on or squished. Maybe someone else would’ve put you outside back to nature. But here you are with me, existing with me.
And I see you. And I stop to look at you and your tiny hairs and tiny fangs and to count how many legs you have left.
I could’ve ignored you. But I saw you, and suddenly you had meaning to me. Suddenly you were important.
And I took a photo of you.
And suddenly you were given a face. And suddenly your presence was recognized with effort beyond a passing glance. And suddenly another version of you exists in my DSLR and on my computer and in my girlfriend’s texts because I sent her a photo of you immediately.
Maybe you’re smaller than me and your life is shorter than mine. But I see you, I look into your little eyes and wonder if you’re looking back at me, and suddenly you are seen.
And now I’m writing a post about you. And maybe someone else will read this and hear your story and see your face. And maybe now they see you too. And suddenly you’re connected to more people than me, and you’ll never even know how seen you are.
Little spider living in my bathroom, isn’t it crazy how being seen changes so much? Imagine if people saw each other too.