As many ways as there is to kill a spider, there’s even more ways to help them. That weren’t always obvious to me. From an early age I was taught to destroy things that scared me—especially things that frightened my parents. So that first year I killed a lot of spiders and ants and millipedes—any bug that got in this tin can, I’d squash with my squasher-downer. One time I even killed a mouse. After I’d done it, I felt terrible. Its itty-bitty lifeless beetle-black mouse eyes looked up at me, saying, “I’m just a poor mouse. What did I ever do to the world?” I felt bad for months after that—still do, if I’m being honest. My sister Caroline always liked mice. She drew pictures of them for me to put up on my bedroom wall. She was really good at drawing fur.

I have pictures on the wall in this tin can, but they’re my own creations. I make them out of clay.

Every few days, the man with the bucket comes to give me food. Most people would not want the stuff he brings me, but for me it’s almost like Christmas. I rummage through the bucket like a Christmas stocking, dazzled by the colors. And the textures! So many textures. Sure, the fruit looks like it’s been off the tree for some time; baggy plums, mealy persimmons, apples with critter bites taken out of them—things most people would find nasty. But once you start eating—once you get used to the mouth-feel, which I am—it’s really not so bad. The bread, though…well, it’s hard on the teeth.

The man takes my waste and leaves a jug of water. He’s nice to me, most of the time. Calls me a good boy.

In the corner of this tin can is a hole just wide enough to get my hand down. That’s where I get clay and fresh rainwater, and it’s also how I met Josie; I heard her tramping around right outside this tin can one spring morning. I know it was spring because I could smell the flowers. And I heard a bee. Sounded like a fat one.

Didn’t know Josie was a cow for weeks. Discovered this fact as I managed to get my hand to the outside of this tin can through the hole; Josie put her muzzle right in my palm. I was upset at first to learn she was a cow, but the next morning she come back, things were different; just like how we’re taught to destroy things that scare us, our gut reaction to imperfect companionship is something we need to fight off, too. That morning when Josie put her nose in my hand—even though I rejected her on day one, even though I cried and shouted for my mommy—I knew I’d grown as a person.

Josie became my life; when the sun came through the rusted tin, Josie was there to greet me. On days she didn’t show, which was more often than I felt I could sometimes bear, I told stories to Earl, the daddy long-legs who lived in the corner of this tin can. He enjoyed that.

When I was feeling up to it, I dug clay from the hole in the corner to make art, and sang songs in celebration of the seasons.

Earl died in Winter. He just sort of closed up. His legs reminded me of the claw from one of those machines at the carnival, the ones with foam-stuffed animals waiting to be plucked out by some lucky kid with a buck to spare.

I made a coffin for Earl out of clay and rocks, and the next morning when Josie came to see me, we said our goodbyes to him. I sang a song my mommy used to sing while she cleaned our house. Not sure if Josie cried, but I sure did. RIP Earl.

The best sound you’ll ever hear is rain on a tin roof. It’s a song no musician—and I don’t care how good they are…let’s just say it’ll soothe your soul no problem. When I hear that rain, I just know everything is going to be okay. I just know my sister, mom and dad—everybody is going to be just fine. We might be hearing the same song, you know?

A few weeks after Earl’s death; Josie stopped coming. Without Earl and Josie my days were filled with such…emptiness. The kind of empty you get when you’re sick in bed and hear all the other children playing outside on the street, or the type of empty you feel the days and weeks after Christmas and New Years, when the months become cold and plain and slow and nothing.

Now I lay on this damp mattress with my arm up the hole, my hand in the cold Winter’s sun, pretending to be a weed. If I’m a weed, maybe I can grow big enough to let the world know I’m still around. Still alive. But do I even want this?

Scenario One: Mommy sees my face, sees the stubble, sees the change I’m sure is there, says, “No, that ain’t my son. That ain’t my boy.” And even when I tell her what I got her for Christmas, the year I was put in this tin can, as proof, that pack of cinnamon sticks from the corner market, she’ll look at my face and deny me. And maybe she looks different now, too. Maybe I’ll deny she’s my mommy.

Scenario Two: Mommy sees my face and cries…and…and doesn’t stop crying for forever. And maybe—just maybe—I can’t handle this. Maybe I’m not able to handle anything. Maybe she cries forever if I come home.

Luckily, I don’t need to find out because life goes on.

Somewhere in the distance I can hear a motor running. Construction, maybe. A lawnmower, maybe.

Bucket day has come and gone without a visit from the man. I don’t feel great; my head’s hot and my eyes are dry. I call out for the man but he doesn’t come. Maybe he’s dead? That would be sad.

But hey, maybe this is just the end of the story. Was it such a bad story? I had friends and I had music. One day they’ll find me and feel bad for my life. But, maybe they’ll see my art. And maybe they’ll see Earl’s grave. Maybe then they’ll know there were moments that weren’t so bad.

I hear someone outside this tin can. I shout for them to help me. I shout and shout and shout! I stick my arm in the hole and reach up, waving my hand, a Miss USA pageant wave.

I shout, “Please, my name is John Landry and I live on…I don’t remember the name, but—”

Then I feel it: Josie’s cold, wet nose in my hand.

My best friend Josie is back and I couldn’t be any happier. I scratch her chin and sing her a song. A happy song—a hopeful song.