This is an exercise I did in my writing group last Wednesday. It's very raw and silly, but I sort of enjoy it. We all chose a line from a poem and kept writing from that line, everytime we got stuck, we'd write the line over again.
I chose a line from a Shel Silverstein poem. I've never washed my shadow out in all the time I've had it.
I've never washed my shadow out in all the time I've had it. Perhaps this just illustrates my general lack of hygiene, cleanliness, personal empowerment. But if I washed it. it might shrink like wool in hot water, making a midget of my silouhette, or it could get stretched out like a cotton sweater and look foolish for such a short woman.
I've never washed my shadow out in all the time I've had it. There's no tag with washing instructions, no shadow washing product pitched to me on television, no dry cleaner who specializes. Surely I should not use bleach -- a washed out shadow being an entirely useless thing. Would I use shampoo? Woolite? Dishsoap, glycerin soap? Palmolive? Palmolive works on everything, right?
Will my shadow get darker with age and would that be a sign of wisdom or neglect?
I've never washed my shadow out in all the time I've had it. And maybe I never will. There should be one thing in life that you needn't maintain, but can absolutely take for granted. My shadow will be there as long as he light is not directly above me.
I can count three distinct, yet varying shades of my shadow as my hand moves across this very page and it make me think of all the attention I paid my shadow when I was little. Almost as much attention as was paid to my reflection. I would walk along the side walk after school as the autumn sun set too early and marvel at the length of it. Or in the early afternoon on the playground when it was so much shorter than me and somehow it felt like my shadow would tell me my future.
