so who's the moth?

I was stepping out onto my porch to retrieve my dry laundry this afternoon when I noticed there was a very small spider on the storm door, near the latch. She was carrying a dead moth slightly bigger than herself.

Nice one, little buddy, I thought, but you're going to get smashed if you stay there. So I tried to brush her off onto the porch, where she'd be outdoors and probably safer.

I dislodged the moth from her grip instead. "Crap, sorry," I said, out loud, to the spider. I tried to nudge her off again.

I turned her into a brown streak on the door.

For a solid couple of seconds, I stood there, looking at the door. I considered bursting into tears, because I'm always kind of wavering on the edge of that lately, and it did seem like a fair opportunity. But, I mean, it was just a spider. So I went outside and got my laundry.

This story is a metaphor for whatever you think it's a metaphor for, but I'm just posting this because I feel guilty about the spider.

( life and writing update )