As pesky as I was, Sofia was creative and studious and had a good ear for languages. She taught me how to tell time using my shadow cast by the sun. She taught me to recite the times in pitch perfect Vietnamese, which she learned from Dad, who spoke Momma’s native tongue very, very…badly, or as Momma would say, “Un-in-tel-li-gi-ble!”
Sometimes at night, I would wander the halls when shadows lurked everywhere. As I
would pass Sofia’s room, I would spot a dim light piercing through the darkness. She would read by flashlight, unable to resist the suspense of what would happen next in her latest novel. I would spy her silhouette as she read under her quilt with all of the state flowers. My favorite was and still is the dogwood. There are two of those. I also like the blue bonnet. All the flowers on the quilt distract me from my, no our -- sorry Shadow -- aching loss.
But maybe loss is meant to be felt, as it allows wonderful memories to flourish. One
Halloween, Sofia had a bright idea. She designed our costumes, making the pattern and sewing them together until her masterpieces were complete. The costumes were identical, except the color. Hers was a very detailed, verdant green. Mine was jet black. While trick-or-treating, people would instantly recognize Sofia’s costume but would ask who I was supposed to be.
Placing her hands indignantly on her hips, Sofia would answer, “I’m Peter Pan, and she’s my shadow.” It was a wonderful night of follow-the-leader and trick-or-treating all at once. We laughed until our sides hurt. “Shadows don’t laugh,” the neighbors would say, smiling. But shadows do laugh. And they giggle too. And they also cry -- when they’re lonely.
As we sit in her room, Shadow snuggles against me, while we both try to comfort each
other. I’d imagined that I would miss her when she went off to college, but I never expected it would be like this. I am here -- only a shadow of whom I used to be. Sofia has gone, and I cannot yet follow, as a shadow should.
Now monsters lurk in the shadows, and I feel something hiding in wait for me. It’s
October, and I can feel the bare branches of the oak tree outside Sofia’s window. I am reminded of wires and strings, as their long shadow hands pull poignantly at my heartstrings, as if tugged by some absent puppeteer.
With Thanksgiving on the horizon I ask myself, “Will Sofia be here?” Shadow needs her
Peter Pan, and I need my puppeteer. We are her shadow puppets and always have been. We await her return so that she can lend her guiding hand.
The End