SHADOW
As I run along the concrete strand, paralleling the Pacific, I follow my shadow as it moves in and out of existence between the streetlights. With each brief disappearance, I wondered where all the versions of Billy go when they are not taking their turn being me? I knew my shadow would rejoin me once I was back under the spotlight of the orange electrical glow, but I questioned whether this was true for all the variations of Billy.
I was struggling to understand the play for power happening within me. Would I always exist as an expression of all that has happened to me—a collection of reactions—or could I manifest a grounded version of myself capable of actualizing my hopes and dreams?
With each step, I questioned my ability to sustain my running legs. How long could I keep this up? Would I ever stop running? Who would I be without running? Who or what was I running from? What do you want? The last question involuntarily halted my run.
Who asked that? I wondered. And what did who want? Me? Was I asking myself what I wanted? If so, who or what part of me was doing the asking?
Perplexed, I dropped my head, allowing my eyes to focus on the outline of my dark silhouette. As I gazed at my two-dimensional self, the question agitated my mind; What do you want?
…
“Mama!” Increasing the volume of my voice wasn’t working; Mama didn’t seem to notice me. I’d been competing with the T.V. all night for Mama’s attention. Only a few feet separated our full-sized motel beds; I knew she could hear me. I sat up and flicked on the lamp between us.
“Mama!” I shouted again. This time Mama responded.
“What, Billy? What do you want now, Son?” I could tell Mama was irritated by my persistence. I didn’t care. I had her attention.
“I just want to ask you something?”
“Well, ask. You done interrupted my program.” Mama pushed herself up, reached across my kid sister, unsnapped her leather cigarette case, and pulled out a Marlboro Light. With lit cigarette between her lips, Mama offered me her attention. “Well, go ahead. I ain’t got all night.”
“I just wanna go home,” I confessed, hopeful Mama would assure me that our stay at Motel 6 wasn’t permanent.
“You wanna go home, and people in Hell want ice water, but they ain’t gettin’ it.” Mama took another drag off her ciggy, put it out, and turned the light off. She had nothing else to say. Her point was clear; we weren’t going home.
I pulled the sterile white motel sheets over my head, blocking out the glow of Dallas, Mama’s favorite T.V. show. Beneath the sheets and under my breath, I asked God to help us find a home. I just wanted to go home.
…
My shadow has a home in me. He comes and goes without warning. I never ask him to be anything other than what he is, a personification of the hurt parts of Billy I reject.As the first light of day stretches across the Pacific, the streetlights flicker off, and my shadow disappears, taking with him my need to have the normal life and home I never knew.
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