I walk to the bus stop, my shadow long, hand-holding the shadow next to me. There is no separation in the long puddle of darkness only one solid figure spreading thin in the middle before becoming another small, hopping, figure. The shapes are silent, linked in the middle.
Hand holding is it. The best thing in the world. Connecting me to the vibrance that is that child.
I watch that shadow spread along the pavement. What is it? It’s me but not me. Him but not him. It’s there in the light and otherwise?
Remember when Peter Pan lost his shadow? It was tucked in a drawer and Wendy had to sew it back on.
There’s something to the fragility of a shadow. Something of the soul. Long, narrow, stretching on and on. Or a puddle. On days, just gone. The shadows merge and then extract one from another. I am one person and then, with him, I am a Shiva waving arm and arm and arm and arm.
There, on the pavement, we are one huge lake of sweet hand-holding bliss. When he goes, when he darts off to friends, to school, to college, to marry, in a snit, when he declares that I have ruined his life, I will be here, that same puddle he emerged from. Our shadow will simply have torn off. Some of mine gone with him. Some of his left with me.