During the day she dressed as a shadow. Wandered through her hours and minutes feeling more like grey matter than sun stuff. As a shadow, her relationship with the sun was more love than hate but still there was room for a little resentment. For when no sun appeared, she felt even less than a shadow (which is a pretty sad shape to be). It was the sun that made her appear, so you see without it she would hold her middle finger high proclaiming that she was taking away her pinky promise to always be a friend. Of course, she didn't mean any of it. In times of anger we all say things that we don't really mean (and later regret). Thankfully the sun never says much, and always returns... implying forgiveness.
Come 5 p.m. she shed her shadow, hung it on a hook under the large block letters that read BRAVE on her wall, and danced through her delightfully decorated home. Coffee in hand she would twirl like Fraulein Maria in the Sound of Music. Even her skirt would flare trying to emulate the song on her breath. On her table could be found cups from days past. Not left there because she was lazy, but because the pages of her journal screamed for them. One drip at a time, maybe more than a drip, she would stain the pages... let them dry... then pour forth her soul onto the aged and ragged papers within the sewn bindings. Her words were the words she kept in all day, the words a shadow could not say. The words a shadow was not expected to say.
Pencils, pens, loose string, and colored pencils were her voice. Her journals, an accruing book shelf of broken, healed, and happy hearts sit like soldiers guarding what's inside... waiting for the moment when she will share the BRAVERY inside them.
Nights spent letting her soul shine were left behind when morning drew it's heavy sigh. She slipped off her flowered skirts and back into her shadow visage... or so it felt. For she never really was a shadow. Or is a shadow. People just assumed she was or thought she was because they never had the chance to see what a real and beautiful sprite she was inside... until that is she began opening the soldiers pages and allowing the public to peek inside.
Now she spends her time less in the shadow and more in the light. She doesn't curse so much at the sun as she yearns for it's touch. She's working on making her nights and days, lights and shadows more equal. She feels more like a chef finding the right balance of ingredients, she allowed the dark so that the light could prevail. She knew it was the moments that she wore the shadow, sipped her coffee, and stared at the big bold letters near her doorway that let her confess that she could be what displayed on her walls.
This
short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of
my imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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