Five Tarantulas in a Teapot

Funny, how places aren’t places, as much as they are times. I let the thought ripple across my stream of consciousness, as careless and as casual as a sea breeze. I look at the blooming hydrangeas before me, then reach out to pluck one of the pastel petals between my fingers. Yes, places aren't places, as much as they are times. 

Lost in thought, I study the flowers that grow here — lemon daisies, sunflowers, toad lilies — and admire how each flower adds a touch of wild beauty to my grandmother’s garden. Every step I take shifts their shading and when the glow of the late afternoon sun falls on the flowers, it ignites them in a color-struck blaze, as if they are blanketed by pixie dust. 

It’s a shame, really, a place as beautiful as this, housing such horrific people. 

Nevertheless, I press on, moving further into the garden. 

And there, amongst the bluebell vines, sits a porcelain teal teapot, nothing more than a faded garden garnish. I lower to my knees, curious as a kid, and lift the lid, gently. What emerges from the shadows within makes me jump with a start, and out of sheer fear, I drop the teapot and scurry back a few feet.  

Catching my breath, I lean forward, dumbfounded, and reach for the teapot lid again. The second time I open it, I stare intently, as five, hairy black bodies crawl over one another, each of their eight spindly legs flitting about, their small sets of eyes focusing on me. 

Tarantulas. Tarantulas in a teapot. But how—

“Ezekiel. Ezekiel.” Someone calls out my name with a brashness that brings me back to the present, back to why I am here today, sitting in my grandmother’s garden. 

“Ezekiel, stand by me,” my father says. I pause and look at him, look at all of them — my father’s brother, sister, and mother — watching me. Waiting to see what I’ll say. Waiting to see if I’ll fold, like my brothers did before me. 

After a few moments, he asks again, subdued rage bleeding through venom. “Son. Stand by me.” My father locks his jaw and holds out a hand, the gesture more of a demand than an invitation. 

I find the courage within myself to meet his eyes. I know I can’t speak for anyone else — not for my dead mother or forgotten brothers. I can’t right decades of wrong in one go, but I can hit this head on. I can be brave enough to break this cycle. 

For if I won’t stand up for myself, who will? 

So, with the delicate petals of the hydrangea still in my hand, I say, clearly and unapologetically, “No.” My father freezes and my eyes find my grandmother, rocking in her chair on the porch. I steady myself and let out a shaky breath. 

“I feel sorry for you,” I whisper to her. 

“What’s that, boy?” She spits out, a cigarette tucked tight between her lips. I look around at each of their faces, at my aunt and uncle sitting at the picnic table, at my father standing on the porch steps, at my grandmother in her chair, and for a moment, I think I can’t do this. I simply can’t do this. 

But then, I remember my mother’s smile, her voice. I remember a different place. A different time.

And as I rise to my feet, I crush the flower in my hand, and find my footing. And that broken, battered part of me that’s held so much for so long — an ocean of wounds and worry — spills out, flowing steady and free. 

I face my grandmother. 

“I am sorry,” I say, each word louder than the last, “That you’re still in love with him, even though he cheated on you, over, and over again. Even though, he hurt you and left you with nothing but a mortgage to pay and mouths to feed. I’m sorry, that you can’t, that you won’t, let him go. That you choose, every day, to wait for him, and that waiting, that hoping, it’s eaten you alive. It’s left you with nothing and no one.” 

My grandmother stops rocking in her chair and removes the cigarette hanging limp in her mouth with two shaking fingers. But I won’t give her or any of them time to respond. 

So I turn to my aunt and say, “I’m sorry that you married — probably — the dirtiest, cruelest man alive, then proceeded to have three children with him, and all of them are fucked in the head because of it, because of him, and what he did to them. Yet, you still make excuses, for him and for yourself. It’s disgusting. And because of those excuses, because of those lies, I do not know if he's more of a monster, or if you are.” 

My aunt’s face goes pale but I can’t stop, not now, not ever. And without skipping a beat, I face my uncle, his features as hard as stone, his eyes filled with a cruel knowing, as if he expects what’s coming next. And I say to him, “I’m sorry that you’ll always be looking for validation, for acceptance, for love. But no one will ever accept you, or love you, if you can’t learn to like yourself. If you can’t learn to be kind to yourself, and others.” I watch his eyes dart back and forth from my father to my aunt, his cheeks burning bright scarlet. 

And then, I turn to him. To the one man who is most important to me. The others fade to gray and it’s just us, my father and I. 

It takes everything in me to say it, but somehow I do, and it’s as though my mother’s prayers help the words glide off my tongue, willing me to say, “And I’m sorry that you’ll always be looking for more, even when what you had, what you have, right here in front of you, is enough.” 

I pause, only to catch my breath, and hold my fathers stare. “She was enough, she was all we needed. You lost her long before she died and you’ll lose me, too. For, I am enough,” I shout, my voice cracking at the end of it. 

Shaking, I swallow hard. Hoping he sees the pleading in my eyes, the truth in my eyes, I say it again. But not for him. For myself. 

“I am enough.” 

And in those final words spoken at long last, I find freedom in the release. 

I look down at my clenched fist and relax my hand, unclamping the broken flower crumpled there. I say to the fallen flower in my hand, and to anyone else listening, “Family is not blood or born. Family is who you choose, every single day, to love. To fight for. To work hard for. None of you do that for each other — or for yourselves.” 

Only the whistling of wind through trees and the buzzing of insects can be heard. 

Tears sting my eyes, and I let them swell until they flow, cutting down my cheeks. I clear my throat, “There is so much hate and hurt in this garden. So much hate. Stop yielding to it, stop feeding it. Participate in your own life, for once.” 

I smooth out the flower’s petals and place it on the ground. “It’s time to heal, and if you won’t do it for yourselves, then do it for all of your children and grandchildren who are sitting in that house behind you with their ears pressed against the glass, listening to all of this.” 

I watch their faces twist and contort, a kaleidoscope of ire and despair. 

Some of them won’t get it, the things I said. Some of them will choose to go on hating me forever, like they hated my mother.

But there was one, the only one who I cared for, who I truly tried to love, who heard me. And by the look in his eyes, I know it’ll be a long while before I see my father again. 

On the ground, the crumpled flower sits beside the teapot and I watch the tarantulas within. I watch them pummel each other, fangs flared, trying desperately to climb out of this picturesque porcelain snare. 

And so, I kneel down and pick up the teapot. I tip it upside down and shake out the tarantulas. They scatter as they hit the soil, crawling off to wherever they’ll go next. 

Holding the teapot tight against my chest, I walk straight through the garden, past the picnic table, past the porch, all the while making sure to step over the vines of flowers and fruits. 

And when I reach the garden gate, I unlock the hatch and step out into the autumn twilight, leaving this place, this time, behind.