'You can knit a sweater by the fireside'
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Not one message. No call through the landline, or even a letter through the mail. 'Too busy with the kids', they will say. 'My husband has only just died' is another excuse. As for my sons, they were either too eager to die, or won't have much longer to live. 

I start to purl the square I just worked on. Not out of frustration. Not necessarily. My arms are not what they used to be lately, causing to turn my knitting uneven. Some rows turn out too tight, and others too loose. 

Here I am, turning 64 on this beautiful autumn day, with the fire crackling just enough to warm my feet, knitting away. It has become routine for a few years now.

With four of my arms I spin the silk back into a ball. I make sure none of the thread stick together, so that it I can still use it when I try again after my afternoon nap. Yes, I do need that nap after I stuffed myself with that grasshopper I prepared yesterday. 

Once the silk is turned into a nice ball of yarn,  I put it in my basket next to my chair, where other, smaller silk balls are stored. Once I finally get out of my chair, which is somewhat harder to do with a leg less to balance myself on, I scurry to my kitchen.

Immediately a combination of herbs greet me. It is a nice sensation, and makes my hunger all the much stronger. But before I can even open the door to my cellar, where all my recent catches hang, the bell to my front door rings.

I try to recall all the reactions of my children. Every single one of them cancelled, one by one. Yes the list is long, but I have not forgotten one. Did I?

Carefully I peep through the little hole in my door. Four beady eyes stare at the door. Slowly I open the door, just slightly, and poke my head through.

"Can I help you?" I ask the little spider. It just barely is a hatchling.

"Uhm," with their two front legs, they push a bouquet forward. It is small, only a few different flowers and finished off with some leaves, but still beautifull nonetheless.

"Mom said I should go to you if I wanted to weave".

I get no further explanation, no introduction. They could be one of my many grandchildren, but then again, I do recall an instance where a newly widow putting 'some sense' in her child that weaving is irrelevant these days. That they should find a hobby that could pay well as adult.

I ignored them then, pretending that I didn't hear their whole conversation. Would she really drag me into their fight?

"So you want to learn how to weave?" I ask, hopeful that I'll get more information of of them this time.

But they simply nod, eyes darting away, and legs restless.

"Weaving is a bit complicated, dear. How about we start knitting first?".
With two legs I open the heavy door further, giving the little kid enough space to enter.

If her mother sent them, it means she knows they are with me now. So that should give no issues.

With big eyes every inch of my humble home is scanned, fascinated with all the 'old fashioned' trinkets. The kid is in awe, sometimes stepping on their own legs.

"Are you hungry? I was just about to get some lunch".

The little kid shakes their head, finally focussing on me.

"No thank you"

"You sure? I am starting on a grasshopper".

The little eyes grow big enthousiastically, yet the kid doesn't respond.

I take out an extra plate, and prepare the table. On the counter I prepare the grasshopper, and give a good piece to the kid.

"Here, you must eat well and grow if you don't want to get stuck in your moult".

In silence we eat, but I don't mind. There is a little tingle in my body, a little flood of happiness. I am not alone today after all. And above all that, I have the opportunity to teach this kid one of the most beautiful crafts a spider can partake in, one that connects us to our ancestors.

But the kid is shy, won't hold eye contact long when we look at eachother, only taking small bites from their food.

"Why do you live alone?" They then suddenly ask.

"None of my children stayed. Which is alright, they had to leave in order to achieve what they wanted to achieve. I made sure they followed their dreams".

"Aren't you lonely".

I raise my shoulders.

"Not entirely. My husbands are still here, in the garden. They might not be alive anymore, but sometimes I can still feel their presence, their love".

"Did you have many husbands?"

"Just a few. After my last one died, I knew I never wanted to relive that grief ever again. The pain only worsened".

The little spider finished their plate, and I offered then some more. Reluctantly it accepted, mainly because I already put a new piece of meat on their plate.

"What made you want to start weaving?" I then ask. I put my plate in the sink.

The small spider seems to think for a while, but then just shrugs.

"I just think it's cool".

My fangs go wide of happiness.

"It definitely is".

Once the kid is done, we move to the livingroom, where the fire is still cracking softly. I load in some new twigs, and within a few seconds the flames rise.

Once I finally sit in my chair, which took more effort than I am proud of -maybe it is time for an recliner that helps you stand, like the one I saw in an advertisement recently-, I take the little one on my lap.

In one arm I take the ball of silk I formed this morning, and give a smaller ball to the kid. Carefully I cast on a few loops on my upper arms, slow enough so the kid can follow my steps. It takes a while for them to get it right, but once they find the technique, they do it remarkably fast.

And so it is time to actually start knitting. With our upper two arms as the needles, we guide our silk with our lower two.

"You go in, loop over, return, and let it slip off" I instruct. I repeat the steps multiple times. The first row is almost finished for me.

It takes a few rows before the kid gets the hang of it too, but once they do, they proudly turn towards me and show their work. As if I couldn't see it well enough over their head.

And I can't help but smile.

Maybe this is not such a bad birthday after all.

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