They left us behind like so many discarded rags. Not a word was said, no clue or conundrum to be solved, it was as if we’d never even existed. Our sun had set.
The Winter came with snow and ice, a cold, cold fury. We huddled under the lone light of an iron lantern, a ragtag collection of those without life. I was more grateful for my companions in those perpetual nights than I’d ever been for my other. In summer and spring he stood on me for laughs, kicked footballs at my head when I rested against the wall, drowned me in the village pond. Did he hate me so? Did they all?
North of the Arctic circle was a hard place to survive, waiting for the sun to return. Always waiting. We lingered in preparation for our other halves, our solid halves, to come back, winter lepers, something less than whole. We prayed in silence lipless and confused.
Where we should have ridden the summer breeze, instead, we fluttered in the shadows as melancholy took hold. It would be a long six months holding out for our others. But we would, we always did, until it would be our time to discard they. Such was a shadow’s destiny over and over again.