Walking With Shadows
There was little in his stride to indicate confidence. Indeed it was the notably laboured step of one burdened by weight. The load was neither material, nor flesh and bone - yet it was all too clear that it was a burden that one should not be expected to carry alone.
Its bearer was in truth, a mere shadow of his younger days; a man taunted by ghosts from the past; a man torn by passion. A man overly sensitive to the needs and sadnesses in others - and one totally consumed by the pain that this nature had crippled him with.
Now he was Atlas. Carrying the the weight of the world upon shoulders that in days gone by were stronger - surer.
How did that saying go?
Give me a lever, and a place to stand, and I will move the world?
Perhaps he thought.
But give me love - such as I give - and I will move Heaven and Earth.
The footfall continued.
Two shadows walking. Two shadows synchronised sharing feet of stone. Two shadows turning left into Hallmark Parade.
Clouds gathered like dark intruders stealing the sting from a summer's sky. As cobalt blue faded, one shadow withdrew reluctantly to dwell where phantoms await the suns return.
Alone he continued. Along the path that in his childhood was the route to Grandma's house.
Grandma was gone. Like so many others that he had loved. Their shadows lost in the past.
The street itself had changed with the passing of years. Structures had come and gone - and the mystery of the street had vanished along with them. As a child he would enter this street and take a firmer grip of his mother's hand. Four shadows joined. Four shadows walking. Two shadows filled with a sense of wonder. Two shadows fearful of the street ahead.
Besides the joy of leading him to Grandma, the street offered treasures of its own. Not far from the safety of the corner of Roberts Street lay the remains of an old submarine. Though his father had told him many times that the remains were that of a rusty old boiler, the child found that to be most unlikely. After all - this wreck looked like a submarine. His father would often say that - "I might not always be right, but I'm never wrong!" This, the child could only imagine was one of those times when his father was - "not always right."
As proof of his father's "not always right", the child recalled how his mother had used and old boiler to make - "a lovely pot of chicken soup with dumplings." An old boiler no longer could lay - that's why mum made soup out of them. And besides, how could anyone make mum's lovely chicken soup with an old submarine? They couldn't!
At this he smiled, and recalled the child he once was with fondness. Such innocence! He recalled the parents he missed terribly - gone to see Granma - but not along this street. Not walking with shadows. Not to the house filled by the sweet smell of Grandpa's pipe tobacco.
As memory teased his senses and tantalised him with aromas and the voices of infancy, time drew back her veil. He found himself standing before the fenceless property where the marine leviathan lay beached among a sea of other rusting remnants and scrap. Cars with headlights like bugs, and sideboards from which gangsters would lean to shoot at persuing lawmen. He could almost see the finger prints left behind as Bonnie and Clyde held fast to the door frames as they weilded there flaming guns to ward off their capture. He saw no bank. No police officers.
He saw only the discarded treasures of forgotten dreams. Broken dreams and shattered treasures to be sure; but treasures none the less. And shadows - always shadows!
Among the ruins, and more often than not from the exposed belly of the submarine, hens and their chicks would search excitedly for the scattering of seeds and household scraps that peppered the chaos. How fastidious they were!
Perhaps there was something in his father's boiler story after all?
But mum was right - wasn't she?
She knew so many things mum did.
She knew when it was bedtime - before he did! Always! Before the first yawn appeared too!
And she would often carry him to his bed when he had fallen asleep on the floor.
She knew when it was time for school and she would wake him for breakfast - just in time!
She knew when he was hurting and in need of a cuddle. Always! She always knew that.
The submarine and chickens began to fade and in their place the current family home which occupied the property, forced its presence upon him. A carefully manicured lawn surrounded a not so unique brick dwelling. A rainbow of rosebushes provided a welcoming passage toward a door all covered with mistletoe and holly. He could see the toys, and bikes, and the odd remnant of wrapping paper decorated the porch and lawn where once a mother hen had encouraged her offspring to scratch. Through the window he caught sight of a blazing tree. Its twinkling coloured lights were the perfect accompaniment to the smiling faces that beamed at each other across a table prepared for festivity.
Joy was being had.
Joy to the world.
A family!
Love.
The only gift worth giving.
The only gift one needs to receive.
The only gift necessary - was being shared in the smiles and laughter of the family gathering.
He turned and shuffled on, unaware that one of the children had noticed him - and had come outside to share with him a special gift.
Time.
The clouds that had gathered had darkened and a breeze had come from nowhere. No doubt it resided with the shadows banished by the clouds. Its breath was cooler than the north wind and there was a telltale scent of rain in the air. Along with the breeze, an old fear returned.
An old man. Long since confined to the shelves of the past.
His childhood self reappeared clinging precariously to the reassuring flap of his mother's coat. His steps were as always hesitant, measured, and mum offered the protection of her gentle hand. Nurturing! She was aware of his need for reassurance and, as they approached the house shrouded by an overhanging and weeping willow, she directed the child to the relative sanctuary of the opposite side of the street.
The child had been tormented by stories of the old man who lived in the house at the willow. His father, along with his brothers, would often tease him about the old man who ate children for breakfast. He was sure that this was one of those instances where his father was - right! Tha fact that his brothers supported his father's stories convinced him of their authenticity. His brothers were big! And they were clever! They must know that the stories were true! He was little! And he was frightened by the stories!
The dilapidated structure seemingly emerged from the chaos of an unkept garden, its decaying verandah likewise, the product of neglect. It was a place that created fear simply because of its contrast to the structures around it. But now, in retrospect, it was a place created by sadness.
All to often, the old man would be seen sitting upon the skeletal remains of a whicker chair, his hair an explosion of grey which crowned the dark and wrinkled face of Father Time.
The whicker chair!
Or as he had thought of it then - the wicked chair!
Was it the throne of a king of terror? Or was it simply a pensioner's poor pedestal designed to comfort the weariness brought on by age?
Despite his lack of years the child was convinced that, day by day, new lines were etched into the old man's face. He was also certain that the pruning mouth lacked a serviceable tooth; the result of grinding the bones of children for a period of eternity.
Today was different.
The old man was not in his chair. He stood at the fence, leaning unsteadily against a post untouched by recent paint. The flakiness of the post appeared to soften the weathered appearance of the old man and a smile broke from the confusion oflines upon his face.
"Merry Christmas Missus!" he said. "And to you too young Joey!"
The child stopped.
He peered cautiously around the fabric of his mother's coat to put a face to the voice that was wishing his mother and himself a Merry Christmas. He saw only the glowing face of the old man - his hand raised in greeting. His grip relaxed on his mother's hand and he stepped out from behind her sheepishly. He looked into his mother's face. The face he recalled from childhood. Younger! Happier! And he wondered why tears filled her eyes.
Her face began to fade; to be replaced by the older and wiser version so recently departed.
How could he have been so frightened of this old man?
How could he have been so frightened of old?
Why was it only now that he understood?
"Should I go and say hello to him mum?" he asked softly.
"It's not too late," she replied. "It's never too late!"
"But how does he know my name? He never spoke to me as a child! Why should he speak to me now?"
"Because, Joey. That's why!"
"But mum.....Mum?"
The sun had chased the clouds across the sky, and with its return, a wiser man found the reassuring presence of his shadow - his current shadow. The present reinstated itself while memories retreated back into the realm of perspective. Back where shadows dwell.
Where the old man's house once stood, there was now a modern block of units. Children played in the driveway, testing out new skates and introducing Christmas toys to the rough and tumble of the real world. Television aerials now sprouted where once a weeping willow had draped comforting fronds across the drooping shoulders of a lonely old man.
He wished that he could speak to the old man now. Share some time with him. What would he say?
What comfort could he provide? As a child, how could he have understood? Even now he wasn't entirely certain that he grasped the significance of Hallmark Parade. A place of shadows - a place of wonder and fear. But he knew what he wanted to do next.
As the day brightened, his stride lengthened and he crossed the road to pass an old man's spirit onto the youngsters playing there.
"It's not too late," she repeated. "It's never too late!"
A shadow smiled - and had to hurry to keep up.
A smaller one waved unseen, turned right and stepped back into yesterday where mum's gentle hand beckoned.
The other was being held by a kindred spirit.
In Memory of My Mother, Myrtle Eleanor Woods
John : December 1999
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