Late summer or early fall—memories are unreliable Father was lying on his side In the swaying spiderweb, no spider could be seen The spider is hiding, why don’t you try touching the spiderweb But I am afraid The sound of wooden floorboards creaking Withering up for decades, Father rolled over to his other side And when he did, his scent, his warmth Just as I hadn’t touched the spiderweb, I didn’t dare touch my father’s back And so, neither the spider nor my father moved Why couldn’t I grasp that the space would be empty If you can’t see it, is it hiding The shadow that creeps and crawls toward the door to escape The light that casts and gathers the shadow under the gap—I’ll grab its hand so it won’t run away Memories of late summer or early fall are unreliable, and I am still afraid