Shadows

The coffee pot sputters as it brews my morning lifeblood. I pull on my leggings, reminding myself that the first five steps out of bed are the hardest. With those behind me, the day will unfold. These moments before the sun rises are mine alone. The house is dark and quiet. The dogs still lie curled in their beds. I peer out the long thin windows of my house into the shadowy park below. Much is hidden in the shadows there. 

On these dark, quiet mornings, on days when Nic forgot to close the blinds before bed, I look out into the park and wonder who is there, and what can they see when they peer back up at me. Our tall windows illuminate our house. I am sure that I am clearly visible from below. I warily look over my shoulder as I pull the cup down from the cupboard. I draw the blinds. I check the lock on the door. 

Perched above the park, I wonder how many people have curiously glanced into my home, my life, and my world while I lived it unsuspecting I had an audience. I live in a safe neighborhood, in a safe town, in a safe country. 

Yet, even still, I have shadows I'd rather not see staring back at me.

Their faces are clear in my mind, and yet they morph into each other under the cloak of the night. Sometimes they pass through the neighborhood quietly - staring up. Sometimes they stop just under the streetlamp across the way. The sidewalk bends around the light, just slightly. In the curve of the concrete, they stand and look. Up. They are crouching in the dumpster shelter just below my stairs. They are shooting up, wrapping up, hiding, and then see me, as they glance toward the window.

I am sipping coffee, rubbing sleep from my eyes, saying good morning to the dogs. I am standing, leaning over the huge elephant ear plant that looms in front of the window. I am curled into the couch with a small dog on my lap, knitting as I watch TV. I am cooking in the kitchen with the radio on, I am writing at the table. I am leaning over my husband to kiss his prickly cheeks. I am talking on the phone to one of the kids as I tidy. I am living.

My shadows, like most ghosts, are likely not lurking behind the trees in the park across the way looking up at me.

Yet, herein lies the trouble with shadows. The shadow is absence of light cut out by the figure as it cast fear upon my soul. The person may be gone, but the shadow is cut in sharp grooves where the light used to be. The shadow has taken up residence in the promises made to never forget. Never forgive. To always be. Right. There. 

Fear has taught me when the Internet acts a little weird, the shadow is looking. When a car lingers too long, fear has taught me who is inside. When a coincidence lands in my lap, fear has taught me to look closely. Fear has taught me that my shadows are watching. 

Everywhere. 

Even here.