On evenings when I come home, I find in the dusty corner at the bottom of the stairs him waiting. Patiently on slivery web he waits till, when I kick off my shoes, I disturb him. And only then does he scuttle somewhat hesitantly back toward his hollow between the tile and carpet. I have come to find his presence a friendly warmth, especially when the cold of winter settles itself at the bottom of the stairs. He is my friend who sits up waiting for my return; forever faithful. Generations of his kind have taken up home there in the crick and crook at the bottom of the stairs. Always but one. From father to son and son to son’s son passing from one to the next a heritage that binds them to me. Generations have come and gone; I only knowing of their passing by the change in size. One day all hairy and large with age; the next day suddenly grown diminutive and petite. This is how and when I know of the passing of the guard, the passing of an old, dear friend who for weeks and even sometimes months welcomed me home on the evenings when I return late. Strangely I find it, but find it nonetheless, a kindred fellow in Spider and all his sons who have lived and waited for me evening over evening at the lows of my stairs. Thank you, my friend. Welcome home, indeed.