Petals spill over the grass as I weed out the fading roses.  My shears hang between the pale pink bush and the pink tipped yellow hybrids as I listen for Cadence.  Silence.  Better find out what kind of mischief she is making.  I throw the shears into the grass, and jog into the backyard.

“Cadence?”

Her little voice comes from the neighbors’ backyard.  I track her down before she climbs into their wading pool.  The shape is odd, reminds me of mountain peaks.  Random footballs and other toys are bobbing in four inches of dirty water.  She isn’t too happy to go, arching her back against my arms and whining in baby language.  I gather the flowers I’ve cut for my kitchen and the shears in my free hand.  I set the shears in the garage and shake the flowers out.

Like a clump of dirt, it falls from either my glove or the roses, and lands between my bare big toe and my second toe.  It has to be a clump of dirt, no spiders are that big.  It moves, tickling my big toe.  I scream, of course, and kick my pink foam flip-flop under the car.

Smooth move.  The fat ‘clump of dirt’ crawls over the concrete.  I freeze, debating if my last flip flop is worth it.  I grab the shovel instead, and squish every visible arachnoid part with the edge.

Two spiders in one day is too much.  The first one I shook off (while throwing the picture frame I was adjusting across my bedroom), determined to buck up and deal with it.   Second spiders can change a person’s resolve.  I think I’ll stay in my house with a can of bug spray in hand at all times.

Yes, it’s true. After weeks of being shutdown, my site is back from the dead!

My fingers are stiff when I wake up in the morning, tired from rehashing old scenes. It’s time to add some new pieces into my daily schedule. Here’s to coming back to life: cheers!

My sandals flop to the floor, my feet kicking them off in a subconscious gesture. It might be the lampshade of night, or perhaps our first time looking at the house as owners, that makes me want to sink into the floor and never leave. The kitchen bay window embraces an expanse of city that I had thought ugly when in its midst. Now the twinkling lights form a breathtaking view.

Jake inspects the sprinkler equipment while I mosey around the rooms. He views the control panel; each sprinkler head has already met with his general approval.

“I think I heard our first knock,” he says without a glance. “You want to get it?”

Not really, but I go because it is our first knock. Two short bodies bubble and distort through the peephole. I crack the door open. One more body skips over the porch steps to the others. Three little girls around ten years of age peer at me with stark curiosity. One holds a marker and paper out for me with a long-winded explanation. It seems her little sister has broken her arm and is currently in the hospital. Will you sign it for her, she asks.

I take the paper and sign “The Schroeders” next to a bold “From.” As an after thought I scribble “Get better!” My yearbook messages always bordered on the unoriginal, no point in getting creative now. I let the girls gawk, a little uncomfortable that they find me that interesting. When they have seen enough, they skip back down the steps, echoing quick good-byes.