Living Shadows

Every day, when the weather isn't too cold or rainy, I go to my favorite reading spot. I throw on my clothes and hop on the bus, counting the minutes until I reach my second home. I arrive at a small garden outside the local library. The long, curved stone bench hugs the evergreen bushes as the little songbirds skip around the trees. I peer through the wall of windows into the library building with its rocking chairs offering a porch view of the garden. A tall, bronze sculpture stands in the sun, greeting me as the diligent host.

There’s a plaque at the sculpture’s feet. I hate to admit how many visits it took me to read it. For months, I thought it was just a nice sculpture. It turns out that it is the blade of a sundial, and its shadow transforms the little red brick plaza into a clock face.

I sit to read in the same spot every time, just at the edge of the bench where I can see the entire round. I add the sliding of my fingers against the pages to the mingled urban and natural rhythms around me. Each word is another brushstroke, gradually painting an imaginary world over reality until I’m immersed.

Whenever I look up from my story and find that the sundial’s shadow has skipped forward, a wave of bittersweetness laps at my brain. I linger for a while in my wonder, check the time, and only then do I believe my eyes. By the time my eyes return to the words in my hands, the shadow has moved further still. How odd that something can move so quickly yet so silently.

They say time flies when you’re having fun, but I’ve always favored the quiet kind of fun. It doesn’t fly so much as trickle by like a passing stream. There are dry seasons and freezing seasons, but just the memory will put you at ease.

My garden is such a cozy little spot, yet I hardly see anyone else there. People pass by, occasionally asking for directions or chatting with their friend or child. Sometimes, a truck rolls by, and its big billboard body spoils the pleasant view. But most of the time, it’s just me and my painted universes.

Then, every so often, I hear him. I can hear his voice in my head, tossing his little quips to me, and I snatch each of them up like a little puppy. I throw the ball back, and he drops it with frantic yapping. He was always much better at dishing it out than taking it, but it was always in good fun. I hear him commenting on the story. He’ll pick out his favorite character or tell me to jot down a particularly witty or well-crafted sentence, and I always do. He always curates a delectable sampling platter. Although, we may just have similar tastes. Either way, I will eat it all up.

I can see him in the corner of my eye. I can’t see his face—just his body shrouded in shadow that not even the sunlight can scare away. But I don’t need to see his face to know it’s him. My heart knows him, and his heart must still know me to lead him back to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I stare at him. He’s a bit short and bulky and looking awfully comfortable. He lounges beside me with his legs crossed. His legs brush against mine, but I don’t mind. I like the closeness. He drapes himself over me, and we read together in silence, interrupted by the occasional shared laugh or an intruder from the real world tapping on our bubble.

As the shadow of the sundial marches through its daily round, I can ignore the silent weight of its steps and enjoy his company. I don’t need to think about that one coworker at work that I can’t stand, or how I’m going to meet my newest savings goal, or when the last time I talked to my mom was. In the garden, with him, my mind is quiet. And I revel in it.

Some days are more trying than others. Some days, simply enjoying the quiet can’t satisfy me, or my mind is too frantic to focus on the words in my book. My eyes jump between every bird and cloud and swaying branch and glimpse of a face. On those days, I get too hungry. I get too greedy. Consequences be damned, I will try to look straight at him. For whatever reason, the rules of this place refuse to allow it. He will shrink into the shadows and dash out of view before I can lay eyes on him. When he disappears, he gets shy, and he takes a while to reappear. But he always comes back, and I’m always there to welcome him with an open heart and mind.

Still, the gap is torturous.

I’m thrown back into the life I lived without this place. The coldness, the emptiness, the numbness. It’s all so familiar that I can recognize it in a heartbeat. No matter where you go or what you do, there’s a veil between you and the rest of the world. You can reach out, but you can never quite feel anyone else’s hand in yours. The world is wrong. You feel wrong. But you don't know how to make it right. Or maybe you do know how to make things right, but the remedy is unattainable. So, you just keep living in the corner of the world you’ve carved out for yourself, dreaming day and night because reality has failed to live up to expectations.

I know I shouldn’t curse the world. I know it will be much more bearable if I just adjust my frame of mind. If I open the other window, the view is so much brighter. But I’m just one person. There's a limit to my strength. I can’t drag myself from that dreary view every day. I keep telling myself that as long as I have glimpses of the sun and moments of peace, it will all even out. I’ll be okay in the end. I have to believe that, even if it’s only as real as the living shadows.

I’m lucid dreaming with my eyes wide open. This little garden is my gateway into the dream world. This world of living shadows is the home I’ve chosen. Here, the sun is warm, and the ghosts are friendly. Here, the painful wounds of the past slowly heal. Here, my memories are alive and well, and I am never alone.