I remember the bowl flying through the air, twirling with a velocity that I had only recognized adults could reach. The window was shattered, and one of my first memories asking, what he meant by the glass being "spidered." In shocking calmness, he responds by stating, "It's when it makes a web pattern like this, like what a spider makes." Memories are similar, all interconnected, one branching to the next and the next, and always there are holes in between them, for our own good, for the spider's escape.