1
After work, we meet in the park near your office to swap shadows, and the instant yours transfers over to me, I recoil at the emotional buildup she’s accrued. I expected it to be bad after all these months, but this is ridiculous. Burdened with so much cruft, her mimicry of my movements is perceptibly effortful, still keeping up but always encumbered. My shadow hasn’t been this laden with residue since my college years, those times I’d let psychological hygiene fall by the wayside during academically demanding semesters. And much as my studies back then distracted me from the gradual accumulation of affective detritus and its toll, work has kept you from fully appreciating the onus your shadow bears—until now.
Undoubtedly it’s a refreshing change for you to have my shadow—the antithesis of yours, unfettered by the dross of feelings that have run their course. And accustomed to always having such an well-kept shadow, I only become increasingly agitated by the sorry state of your shadow—soon incensed, on the verge of launching into a tirade that shames you for mistreating her.
But the urge to upbraid you quickly subsides. I didn’t come here to argue with you. I came here to get this taken care of.
2
By bus, I go to the mountains east of the city. There, I follow the usual trail through the woods, then across the valley. Out in the open, the sheen of moonlight on the scrubby expanse creates a mood of desolate beauty, an atmosphere attractive to a painter with philosophical inclinations who would render this scene as “Landscape with Figure and Shadow”—she the darkest part of the painting, long and thin on the short, young stalks of grass that seem like they should be getting combed down as she passes over them. Because this silhouette of you feels heavy, getting only heavier the farther we go, as though I’m getting tired of towing her across the terrain as she drags across the ground with a viscous inertia that’s unsettling—practically the opposite of how mine glides right over floors, sidewalks, and lawns.
But the weight is, of course, metaphysical, and doesn’t slow me down much. I reach the stream near the base of Mt. Mindle with plenty of time to carry out the cleansing. At the water’s edge, I take off my shoes and socks, then step into the cold current and stand on the rocky stream bed in a spot where your shadow can fall fully upon the water’s surface. Leaning over her, I reach my hands through your shadow and jostle the water. Barely a moment later, emotional detritus comes off her as a plume of minuscule grit that brushes past my fingers and palms before flowing away, carried off downstream. Yet again, I’m amazed that this age-old practice works so well. What would we do without it? How else would your shadow be relieved of the hefty load you’ve long left her saddled with?
3
On my way back across the valley, your shadow is just the way it should be, light and airy—ethereal, sailing over everything she’s cast upon. Until there’s a tug at the edges of my shoes, an unmistakable resistance where your shadow connects to me. Probably some stubborn residue I didn’t wash out is now hindering her movement.
I stop in my tracks and check my watch. I’m not that far from the stream, but going back means hurrying to catch the last bus—though that may be worth it to ensure that your shadow has been thoroughly cleaned. Then, there’s that pull at my feet again, stronger now—insistent. Looking over at your shadow, I’m surprised to find that she’s shaking a pointed index finger vigorously to the right. My gaze goes in the direction of her gesture and meets a fire owl perched on the branch of a still-bare tree. Moonlight has made its feathers into the orange flames of its namesake, like a little inferno that could ignite the dark mesh of the forest behind it into a conflagration. I marvel at the radiant bird of prey, then continue on. Further down the trail, another tug at my shoes brings my attention to your shadow—who is again pointing emphatically. This time to an opalescent moonbow over a waterfall off in the distance.
She does this all along the length of the trail, alerting me to interesting things in the nocturnal landscape, little nuggets of delight that punctuate the backtracking to the bus stop—among them, Zintewofs swinging through the high branches of the forest canopy and fern maples leafing out, each tiny bit of new foliage still curled and wrinkled, as if in the middle of an imperceptibly slow emergence from the bud it was tightly cocooned within all winter. You’ve never mentioned anything about your shadow behaving this way. Maybe she’s presenting me with these sights in exchange for the cleansing, or maybe it’s reinvigorated her and she’s enthusiastic about the world again.
When I board the bus back to the city, I take one of the tandem seats where the interior lighting places her on the seat beside me. There’s nothing noteworthy here for her to point out, but I want to remain aware of her as we are ferried through the darkness back to the city.
4
In the morning, I remember that I have your shadow only after sunrise, when the orange light streaming through the window casts her on the floor tiles while I’m at the kitchen counter. The elongated silhouette moves with fluid ease as I put water and coffee grounds into the coffeemaker.
When I take a few sips of coffee during breakfast, her hands flutter across the kitchen table. She must be enlivened by the caffeine thrum that passes from me through her into the table. This is probably new to her. You don’t drink coffee.
5
When I arrive at the park, you’re already waiting for me on one of the benches shaded by oak trees, out of the abundant springtime sunshine which will make swapping back easy. Seeing me approach, you rise swiftly and walk over, my shadow emerging from those of the trees.
On the recently mowed grass, we stand barefoot, back to back like children comparing their heights after a growth spurt. The backs of our heels touch, and my shadow snaps to my feet with a jolt of warmth. And… that’s it. Your shadow stays attached to me, even after we wait a couple minutes.
“Looks like she doesn’t want to go back,” I say.
“I don’t blame her,” you reply. “But she’s mine. She has to come back.”
“She probably just needs some time.”
“Yeah, some more time away from me and my psychologically sloven lifestyle.”
And why would she ever go back to that? What are you offering her that’s worth returning to?
These irritation-sparked sentiments blaze in my mind, and I want to fling them at you, but the impulse to berate you quickly wanes.
“Well, why don’t we try again later in the week then,” I suggest instead.
And we leave it at that.
6
It takes me much of the day to get the hang of having two shadows, to figure out how to move through life with a new psychological center of gravity—like I’m a cat learning a new poise and gait after suddenly gaining a second tail that moves independently of the tail I’ve always known. Each shadow dissipates different emotions at different rates—mine diffusing everything gradually, yours almost exclusively dispersing the negative with incredible celerity.
This reminds me of the last time I had two shadows. When, decades ago, I had Mom’s in addition to my own, both doing the emotional work only shadows can; mine by instinct, hers with discernment honed by years of experience—providing examples to develop my shadow’s intuition. Sometimes, I felt like I had only one shadow. Mine would let Mom’s take the lead and hide in her, especially if we were in a crowded place buzzing with energy.
By late afternoon, I’ve mostly adjusted to the new arrangement. Still, something seems…off. Jocular conversations with colleagues lose their flare within minutes, turning sedate. When I get back to work on some breakup memories for one of my usual clients, the sting of the relationship’s end is no longer as sharp. These and other odd little occurrences tell me that I’ve got some ways to go before I’m accustomed to having two shadows.
7
After work, I forgo today’s happy hour outing with friends and head straight home, fatigued by all the recalibrating of my metaphysical balance. I just want to have a mug of tea on the veranda, and once I’m home, I do exactly that. As I stand outside staring at the cityscape of concrete and glass, the cool air and grassy warmth of the sencha lull me into a trance. The shallow angle of the sun stretches both shadows off to my right, across almost the entire length of the veranda, making me a sundial with two long hands close together.
When I come back inside, I head to the kitchen to make dinner—my plans abruptly interrupted when the big toe of my right foot strikes something hard, sending a jolt of pain through me. Once the shock ebbs and I’m able to think again, I realize that my toe collided against the partially assembled meaning synthesizer on the living room floor. With my mug still in hand (thankfully), I hobble over to the sofa, upset that I’ve allowed this unfinished personal project to be a tripping hazard. But a moment later—when I’ve just sunken into the sofa’s velvet cushions—I’m no longer annoyed at myself, despite the throb in my injured toe pulsing at full force.
“You have to let me feel it,” I tell your shadow, even though that fervent heat of exasperation has already gone cold.
When the pain has dulled to an ache, an idea forms in my mind—an explanation for why your shadow had so much psychological debris, she’s relieving you of intense negative emotions too quickly. With your reactive temperament, this would naively seem the right thing to do. Better, presumably, for you to burn briefly with a flash of anger, instead of simmer with indignation. But it’s the simmering that can lead to reflection. Denied time to run their course, emotions will lack depth and nuance. And that favors the rise of more emotions, ones that she will likely also curtail, continuing the cycle. More emotions in you means more residue on your shadow.
Though only a hunch, this has a compelling plausibility which convinces me that I must convince your shadow to dispel emotions with a deliberate slowness. But how? Maybe I could intentionally make myself jealous or frustrated, then hold on to the emotion, refusing to relinquish it to her until my psyche has been fully jostled by its fervor. Or is it more effective to have some regimen of emotional exercises? I’ll stop by the library tomorrow after work and ask for books on shadow training.
8
Thursday morning in the memory studio is quiet, just me extrapolating what vividness I can from a client’s transient impressions—until you call. I’ve barely answered the phone when you frantically insist that we meet immediately. In a flurry of taut words, you tell me that a check-in with management has riled you up, and you’ve been roiling with exasperation ever since, venting to coworkers and deep-breathing exercises ineffective against this emotional churn. Encounters with management often agitate you, but never have you called me with such panicked urgency during the workday. So I take my lunch break early and head over to the academic district.
Back in the park, we stand on the sun-drenched grass with the rears of our heels pressed together, sandwiching between them the leather of your shoes and canvas of mine. We really should do this barefoot, but you’re in a desperate hurry. Your shadow, though, isn’t in any hurry, still reluctant to return to you. After some hesitation, though, she relents and slowly rejoins you—probably unable to leave you unaided in this time of need. You heave a sigh of audible, palpable relief.
Once we’re facing each other again, you’re clearly considerably calmer—your expression now the epitome of blissful ease.
No, I want to say to her, not so quickly. Time is the key to unlocking change through learning.
“Oh, man,” you murmur. “Thank you so much. Everything feels way better now.”
After a moment, you add, “I’m going to practice better psychological hygiene from now on. Avoid situations that trigger me. Watch for when I’m spiraling into emotional drama so I can stop myself. And of course, shadowbathe every month.”
That final part of your vow gets my gaze to flit over to your shadow. She seems to be giving me a thumbs up. And though the apparent gesture could simply be a result of how the sunlight is hitting your hands, I take it as an indication that she deliberately made a bid to get you to practice better self care. And at some point, you’re now likely to make a bid to get me to go out with you on nights with a full moon and clear skies.
My heart races as my chest tightens, my mind composing a preemptive rebuff, but a few seconds later, all that agitation unwinds, and in my peripheral vision, my shadow is shaking her head, the rhythmic movement soothing, reassuring.
Right, let’s simply take things as they come. Whatever future with you lies ahead, I’ll inhabit that once it becomes our present.
Soramimi Hanarejima is the author of the neuropunk story collection Literary Devices for Coping and whose recent work can be found in Grist, Drunk Monkeys, Cotton Xenomorph, and Outlook Springs.
Photo by David Werbrouck