If My Shadow Could Breathe

If my shadow could talk, they’d say, “Let’s go for a walk.”

If my shadow could grab me by the wrist, they’d take me miles away from the corner of my bedroom to the nearest convenience store. Or maybe to the park. The school’s playground sounds good too. So does the train station, because anywhere would be much better than the dark corner of my bedroom.

But my shadow could not talk. They cannot make me get up and get out of my misery. Even when I’m not asking to be saved, even when I won’t play as the damsel in distress, why can’t my shadow, at the very least, whisper to my ear and take me for a little walk?

If my shadow could not talk, can’t they see through my memories? Can’t they search for a cut scene, a vignette, a small nostalgia of a father-daughter relationship? Because if my shadow could not talk, I want them to know that I used to use this lip for smiling instead of cursing. I want my shadow to count how many times I hid behind my father’s back for safety, and how many times he held my hand for company. I want my shadow to keep it in their mind, to remember every step I took alongside my father; every gravel outside our house, every pavement on holiday’s destination, every sandy beach under bare feet, every little escape from every overwhelming night. Now then, after my shadow finishes fishing for some memories, can’t they still, not ask me for a walk?

But my shadow, apparently, is unwilling to pull me out for a walk. It’s cruel, I know. To put so much responsibility on this shadow that has done nothing but follow me. But what can I say? They're the most loyal entity, mine only, the witness of every light I’ve seen, and yet, they still couldn’t talk to save me.

I heard knocks on my bedroom door. No one does that in my family. No one had to until today, as we found a need for some privacy where we can cry without stares of pity.

“Let’s go, Ana.”

My mother doesn’t sound like herself. I guess no one sounds like themselves on days like this. But I feel like I have to. I have to numb my face and strengthen my core as I walk out of my bedroom, just so I can pass today without passing out. 

But do you know what could help me go through today with a little more ease? A walk.

So, last chance, my dearest shadow. Do you want to go for a walk with me? Yes, you heard that right. Now I’m the one who’s willing to ask, instead of waiting and keep on waiting for you to abduct me somewhere.

Anywhere, really! Everywhere! Just not here! I told you before, right? A convenience store is fine! I'd be excited to go to a park! The school’s playground would be great! I don’t mind the train station! Just take me somewhere! Please, I beg you! Everywhere but here, where I can see my father’s body lay helplessly without life, without energy, without a chance to take me for a walk!

I felt a grip on one of my shoulders. My mother tries to look straight into my eyes, but my gaze is locked down the whole time. I keep on looking at my shadow. I don’t want to lift my head up. I don’t want to see my mother’s eyes, I don’t want to see my mother’s tear-filled eyes. I don’t want to feel the heavy sobbing surrounding me. I don’t want to identify their sad look as grief when they still judging my appearance. I don’t want to turn around to see my father. No, I really don’t. Not when my vision’s blurry. Not when I can’t recognize the man who used to take me for a walk when something was bothering me. I could only see this as a flaw in the system. I don’t see figures anymore, and I’d rather look down at my shadow.

My shadow stays silent. I guess if my shadow could not talk, maybe, I don’t really mind after all.

If my shadow decided to not care about my old memories, it’s their choice to do so after all.

If my shadow cannot convince me to live a life like my father wanted for me, at least I know my shadow only appear with lights existed everywhere around me; maybe in the convenience store where my father and I used to buy chips and sweet tea, maybe at the park we used to play soccer, or the school’s playground where he let me play until the hour is late, or at the train station where he lost one of his shoes; another story to be kept, another light to collect.

“We have to go.”

My mother pats my shoulders several times, enough to make me put a stop to my stubbornness.

I see the coffin moving. People are lining up, squeezing out from the little front door. I see black as I start to move along. I keep count of black dresses, black jackets, black high heels and pointy shoes, black cars, black skies, and last but not least, black shadows.

My family decided no eulogy to be read. They said before, that my father would’ve wanted no pleasantries upon his death. But because no words filled the air with the images of my father, my head then recall one memory as they lower the coffin.

“What if I can’t stop crying when one of you passes away?”

That question made my father turn his head from the newspaper. A rare occurrence, and very delightful to see. When he went quiet for a while and begin to fold his newspaper, my delight changed into worry.

“I think, you should be thinking more of what to do If you can't cry when either your Mom or I died.”

With a fork in my hand, I stabbed every piece of watermelon cubes in my bowl. 

“There’s noooo way I won’t cry when both of you died.”

And my father laughed. A good, old, hearty laugh which he only let out when I cracked cheesy jokes. 

“Whether you believe it or not, I don’t think you’re gonna cry that much–and that's if, you’re gonna cry at all.”

“You made me look like a bad kid.”

“I made you look like a seven-year-old, which you are, and I don’t understand why we’re talking about this.”

I looked up once at him before stabbing my watermelons again. Any intention to eat the fruit had long gone before the conversation took an unexpected turn.

My father then got up from his seat and pulled me out of the dining chair. He carried me as if I weigh the same as four years ago. 

“Where should we go?” asked my father and I instantly knew his number one plan to make my sour mood turn better like the ripe watermelons left in the bowl.

I blink my eyes and the memory disappears. I look down at my black shoes. Sometimes ago, not too long but enough where I forgot about it, I must’ve polished these shoes. Because right now I can see my own reflection. Through that reflection, I hear voices playing out inside my brain. Like a broken record, my father’s voice from that memory starts to ring.

“Let’s go for a walk. One last time before you really have to walk yourself, kiddo. I can no longer carry you for our entire journey. Okay?”

The coffin is safely buried underground. I see several people lingering around the graveyard. My mother puts her hands on both of my shoulders again. This time, with whispers of pleading for me to start walking away.

I pay one last look before moving my heels around. I cannot find my shadow for a glimpse of time. Everything is pitch black and my body sways left to right. I take a deep breath. I wipe sweat and oils from the heat on my face, but no tears are found. When I refocus my vision, I see my shadow on the ground.

If my shadow could talk, they wouldn’t say, “Let’s go for a walk.” 

If my shadow could talk, they’d say, “You’re not walking alone. You’ll never be, and you never were.”