When we were small, our grandmother would often take us in tow to confession. She drove a boxy black sedan (we can’t recall the model) but both she and the car were always immaculate. If it was cold (and not raining) she wore a fur coat and leather gloves. For us, the creaking of her gloved hands on the vinyl steering wheel typified her otherworldly remove. If she was in a good mood (as was often the case) she would allow us to bury our face in her side, in the cold fur, in the darkness behind her arm.

On a certain day, instead of the cathedral, she took us to the zoo. As far as we can remember the trip was unremarkable — all we recollect is a horrible detour into the arachnid pavilion.

From birth, the mere thought of spiders, so like disembodied searching hands, always filled us with a mild to serious anxiousness.

Inside the spider exhibit, as one would expect, it was quite dark. The walls, ceiling and all the fixtures were coated neatly in a matte black paint. The floor was a dark maroon tile and had a slight sheen. The exposition took place within a long zig zagging corridor. There was one large, glowing display per zig or zag — totaling about eight. There was no glass on enclosures where the spiders weren’t considered dangerous. Gesturing without speaking we drew her attention to the lights that dotted the space; there were webs around all of them. She assured me that she spoke with one of the guards, who said that the errant activity was nothing more than that of spiders common to the area.