Wondrous

I’m driving home from school when the radio talk

turns to E.B. White, his birthday, and I exit

the here and now of the freeway at rush hour,

travel back into the past, where my mother is reading

to my sister and me the part about Charlotte laying her eggs

and dying, and though this is the fifth time Charlotte

has died, my mother is crying again, and we’re laughing

at her because we know nothing of loss and its sad math,

how every subtraction is exponential, how each grief

multiplies the one preceding it, how the author tried

seventeen times to record the words She died alone

without crying, seventeen takes and a short walk during

which he called himself ridiculous, a grown man crying

for a spider he’d spun out of the silk thread of invention —

wondrous how those words would come back and make

him cry, and, yes, wondrous to hear my mother’s voice

ten years after the day she died — the catch, the rasp,

the gathering up before she could say to us, I’m OK.

Sarah Freligh, How to Love the World slowdownshow.org December 5, 2022