WRITE THE WORLD REVIEW ARCHIVE

I was born at home. How it happened is a story my sisters retell on a cold night while we sip tea. But these days aren't ordinary days, though ordinary things are done. The stories they tell me spill out a feeling that the spider web defines perfectly. Its intricate silk fiber connected to form a new path from another's end, loops that began somewhere but can't be found. The feeling is complex, just like the web but deemed beautiful.

I would sit on an old refrigerator that no longer worked by the window, when it was dusk to feed on those stories, piecing the words I've heard into a picture.

It became almost like a wish. To stare into that sunset, the crimson patch of silk and warm yellow washed into the dark clouds of 7:00 p.m., engulfing it but with utmost peace, as the stars, one by one, crystals, the diamonds of nature gave the sky life and to me, something I needed to have, reeling in the "spiderweb feeling.”