To Our Shadows

You are absence of us, the outline and dark space, the suggestion of our shape, what we might look like if we were there.

You are the presence of us, the proof that, despite how we feel some days, we have weight and matter. The light breaks around us.

You join with other shadows: I hold my niece’s hand she tells me about her school; my son grabs my arm as a step toward the street; we seek out the shade and open a book. The shadow moves just slowly enough for us to finish the chapter, close our eyes and feel the heat slowly cross our cheeks.

When the light is low, you stretch, the truth becoming a lie. We are not who we think we are. We are not what other people see. We are so much more. Much less. We are empty.

You play beneath and beside us, a silence that follows us into every night.