at the grocery store as a good omen, an extra bit of good fortune. But a part of him wondered if it was the opposite. He hurried on to his destination, afraid he wouldn’t find the perfection he’d been hunting for so long.
She was there. Every Friday morning, she came to the playground with her mother so she could run around screaming with other children. Then, when they all left, she would sit in the grass and converse with imaginary friends, offering invisible tea and politely brushing crumbs off their intangible fur. She would be a challenge, of course. Parents were attentive, suspicious, paranoid even. But the mother would slip. They always did.
His chance came when a child fell off the monkey bars. The cries of a wounded creature lured responsible adults like flies and the mother stepped forward to see if she could assist or at least get a better look. Meanwhile, the man with no shadow approached the girl.
She glanced up at him with a smile and offered him tea. He graciously accepted, then offered his hand to shake. Instilled with good manners by conscientious parents, she stood and gave him an exuberant high-five. By the time the sound faded, she was gone, and the man with no shadow was lost in the trees, stuffing something into his oh so heavy pockets.
Done for the day, he headed home. Like him, his house had no shadow, and like his shadow, his house did not exist. But no one had noticed and his neighbors hadn’t complained so there it sat, stubbornly ignorant of its existential status, or lack thereof. He parked his nondescript vehicle outside and entered his cookie-cutter home. Furniture was strewn about in a still-life portrait of an Ikea showroom. It didn’t matter. He never noticed it anyway. The door to the stairs was the same color as the walls, though it was more like an absence of color
53
Relics
by Abigail Kirby Conklin
Buddhists burn
their dead down slowly.
You explain this as we sit, working
to have a conversation that sounds
like we still love each other.
They use big ovens,
and sift the ashes for signs
of the divine
bits about this big
and you curl index finger towards thumb.
It’s like they’re looking
for marbles of God.
The fist in the base
of my skull flexes slowly, as I watch you,
my own hands open
and empty. You are telling me
about death, and the quiet men combing
through it, and you,
we,
both know.