" A spider. Crawling, silently on eight hairy legs, weaving fine silk from dawn till dark. In some crevice, in some lair, that is where the creepy spider will dwell. Just like that lonesome deprived widow we know, sitting solitary in her little brush house, zealous for someone to go and visit her, as a spider waits fervently for its prey, ready to trap and ambush it in its web. But the forlorn old woman will confine and keep the caring and thoughtful visitor forever in her heart, for sharing with her the time she wanted."As I remember grandpapa's words, in his quite rough voice because of smoking, I observe the spider moving cautiously. Grandpa is still with me, even though I can't see him. He is watching over me, and his words seem like they are written everywhere where I look. When he died I was just seven years old, but he meant a lot to me.
Even though I was young, he thought me a lot about life, about this long journey, that at times seems to be rushing by, and at others it makes you feel like everything around you is stuck and you are lost in some place you don't know.
Sitting on his lap, I used to stare in his deep set thoughtful eyes, as he looked far away, as if seeking for something so distant that no one can see it with his vision. Then he used to make up a story for me. At times I didn't understand what he meant exactly, but I just listened. The story of the widow and the spider was my favourite one. He retold it to me a lot of times, then he would always end it in this humorous way; "You see my child,