THE FEMALE SHADOW

I KEEP RETURNING TO THE IDEA OF A SHADOW — HERS, OR THE VERSION OF HER I CARRIED—EVEN THOUGH I’M NOT SURE IT WAS EVER REALLY HERS TO BEGIN WITH. MAYBE IT WAS SOMETHING I INVENTED ON THE LONG WALKS HOME, A PRESENCE TRAILING JUST BEHIND ME, CLOSE ENOUGH TO SENSE BUT NEVER CLOSE ENOUGH TO CATCH. IT’S STRANGE HOW A PERSON CAN GO MISSING IN YOUR LIFE AND STILL REMAIN LODGED IN THE AIR AROUND YOU, LIKE A FAINT OUTLINE THAT REFUSES TO DISSOLVE.

SOMETIMES, WHEN THE STREETS ARE QUIET AND THE NIGHT HAS EMPTIED ITSELF OF NOISE, I CATCH MYSELF TURNING AS IF I EXPECT TO SEE HER THERE. NOT THE WOMAN HERSELF, BUT THE ECHO OF HER SHAPE, THE SLIGHT HESITATION OF SOMEONE WHO ONCE WALKED AT MY SIDE. MEMORY CAN BE A CRUEL COMPANION. IT ARRIVES UNINVITED, INSISTING ON ITS OWN TRUTH, EVEN WHEN YOU’VE TRIED TO CONVINCE YOURSELF THAT TRUTH NO LONGER MATTERS.

THERE ARE HOURS—USUALLY IN THE EARLY MORNING, WHEN SLEEP SLIPS AWAY—THAT I WONDER IF THE SHADOW WAS NEVER ABOUT HER AT ALL. PERHAPS IT WAS ONLY THE FORM MY LONELINESS TOOK, DRESSED UP IN HER SILHOUETTE BECAUSE IT NEEDED A BODY TO INHABIT. SOMETHING TO BLAME, OR TO REACH FOR, OR TO LOSE AGAIN AND AGAIN IN THE SPACE BETWEEN THOUGHTS.