The shadow is far different from the simple concept we learned in sixth grade. Many people confuse shadow with darkness, defining shadow as darkness itself. But, as we learned, light is needed for a shadow to form, while darkness is the absence of light altogether. Think about it—how many examples of shadows can you name? If you think the only shadow is the one that follows you, that’s self-centred. Our world is knitted from shadows. What’s needed for a shadow? Remember from science class: it’s light and an opaque object. We don’t need time, silence, memory, or even illness for a shadow, right? Is shadow simply what appears when light cannot pass through something, leaving a dark patch behind it?

 

I’m not sure about you, but my life has been filled with shadows—shadows of all kinds. The first shadow I remember was my mother’s, as she leaned forward, making me laugh. She blocked the light behind her so perfectly that my face was left in a gentle shade. It felt serene in that shadow, sheltered. But one day, she stepped away, and the light struck me directly, glaring and unforgiving. That was my first experience of shadowlessness, and it hurt. As I grew, my own shadow lengthened with me. Sometimes I’d catch sight of it, following me like a stranger, even scaring me as I walked alone down silent hallways late that night without permission. It wasn’t just the darkness on the ground; it was the quiet, the sense of isolation that accompanied it. Was it the stillness, the empty hallway, or was my own shadow haunting me? In my youth, I took up smoking, a habit that carried no shadows. I’d light a cigarette with friends, a small flicker with no eternal shape. I wasn’t afraid, not of the shadow nor its absence. Then I grew older. When my father passed, clouds drifted over his grave, casting long shadows across the earth. One of those clouds finally burst, pouring its sorrow down on us. My tears fell into those shadows, merging with them. Afterwards, I walked away, leaving the graveside, and lit another cigarette with dry eyes. I walked towards the shadowed mountains, seeking some kind of shelter. Time passed. I had children of my own. I became their shadow, always standing between them and the light, shielding them so they wouldn’t be burned as I had been. I wanted to be a steady company, maybe a shadow. But then I aged, and with age came coughing. My children, who had lived without knowing shadows, took me to the doctor. The doctor took an X-ray, studying it for a long time, then pointed to a spot. He said there was a shadow in my lungs—a dark trace of the cigarettes I’d once smoked without a second thought. Shadowlessness had burned me from the inside. I wept, and my children wept with me. The absence of shadows had harmed me; and I, in turn, had passed that harm down. Shadows had shaped my life, and now, in my old age, they had come in complete. They were no longer simply darkness cast on the ground; they had turned my life upside down, each one carrying a story, each one leaving a mark.