8-10 per year

My great uncle swears that the average human swallows 8-10 spiders each year without knowing it. I don't even know how we got on the subject, bu there he is, gesturing emphatically, with his thick accent "EH-spiders!", his mustache twitching, individual whiskers like little spider legs themselves.

I am eight years old, and horrified. I have so many questions. Eight-ten per year? What are these spiders doing, running around on their legs, looking for open mouths to crawl into? How can a spider crawl into your mouth without you feeling it? What would I do if I did feel it, and woke up with a spider in my mouth? What if a poisonous spider crawls in? Are there poisonous spiders in California? Why did my Tio tell me this?

That night, I vacuum my room, all the corners, under the bed, the ceiling. My mom is pleased: "you know, there might be spiders in other rooms." I strip the blankets off the bed, closely examining every last inch of mattress.

In my frenzy, I find zero spiders, instead a barbie shoe, two quarters and a dime, the back of an earring, three dog toys. It's time for bed. I say a little prayer that I keep my mouth shut all night. I get a glass of water and put it next to the bed. Why did Tio tell me that?

It takes me decades to question this "fact." There is no way any motherfucking spiders are crawling into my mouth. I would totally know. I lived in Thailand, I know about spiders. Big brown black long legged ones, as big as your whole hand, that scurry out of the smallest spaces impossible how did they fit in there!?

What is with the men in my family, how they always have to be right? How they will argue even the dumbest points, like motherfucking spiders crawling into your mouth? My abuelo did this all the time too, making ridiculous claims over something he knew nothing about, and then doubling down and plowing over you like a bulldozer if there was even a hint of questioning. When my abuelo was dying, there were times in our caring for him that this bullheaded side would emerge, and the one person who could get him to listen was his only son, my muscular cop uncle.

This was the first time I saw into the different ways men in my family can be with us women. Even though we were my abuelo's caretakers, administering drugs day and night, meeting with the nurses, calling the doctors, even then we'd often have to lie to get him to listen: "The doctor said so!" as if our woman advice was not to be trusted, as if we would bamboozle him on his deathbed.

When I wised up to what has happening, I almost had to laugh at the latent misogyny, even as my heart broke - as much as he loved me, there was still a separation, a line I couldn't cross even in death. I felt the same critical thinking wheels turning as I did at age 9: what was so bad about listening to our advice? What was so scary about letting us take the reins for a while?

I wondered how it would be if the tables were turned. Would he be able to care for us the way we did for him? And I knew in that moment that he wouldn't. No, he'd make himself scarce, just like all the other men had, nothing but 30 second phone check-ins once a day, maybe a short visit every other. Maybe the old men knew deep down that we women would be just fine without them, oh yes, we'd be fine, we'd take care of each other. Maybe they were afraid to let go of their place as heads of the table because they knew in their bones that without them we'd be just fine.

Albuquerque

I don't know what to expect. We drive down a skinny road to your friend's house, the Rio Grande to the left, little Adobe houses to the right. It is so hot, still, sweat dripping down the center line of my back, no matter how little clothing I wear. The sky is beginning to darken as we pull up to the house, high puffy clouds making their way across the purpling sky, a high breeze blowing, and ruffling all the leaves.

We walk in and the house is to die for - gentle lighting, well worn wood floors, a trendy kitchen, even a weight room. So much space, for two people. They each have their own room - hers a little office filled with books and plants and photos, his filled with lots of bro gear - athletic equipment, musical instruments. I feel jealous.

We hang out in the kitchen, eating chips and salsa, catching up. The woman is super cool, and beautiful, and I wonder what she sees in him as he makes dumb jokes and snide comments about people who have not yet arrived. We crack open beers and there are shots of tequila all around. The night begins.

The backyard is the size of six of my San Francisco apartments. He fantasizes out loud about fitting in a baseball diamond; I dream of swimming pools, and vegetable gardens, and animals - maybe a little petting zoo.

More people arrive. More tequila is drunk. I feel so relaxed. Your friends are kind an welcoming, and we talk about so many things; how 200k can buy you two acres, how the local government is actually subsidizing you to become a beekeeper, tidbits about local history, maybe a little gossip about the man who showed up in the bandanna and keeps making fun of everyone for their inferior taste in music.

Then the breeze picks up and the leaves rustle louder than I've ever heard. I feel the soft breeze on my arms, a whisper at the back of my neck. The air shifts and the smell is earth electrified. It's going to rain.