All I Need . . .

". . . Between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act falls the shadow. Between the conception and the creation, between the emotion and the response falls the shadow . . . " ~ T.S. Eliot

There's a shadow self within me whose eyes glimmer with delight around objects. Intoxicated with remembering the joy a gift can bring, it tells a story. It tells a story. And I want to hold on. It tells a story and I want to let go. It tells a story.

And all I need is a story, all my life is a story and therein falls the shadow.

Two gray haired women emerge from a gold Chrylser, it's a formidable car, my father owned one, not gold, but silver, not new like this one, but cool. An antique now it was sold to a stranger by my brother. I took a beating in the back of that car.

An old man emerges from the Chrysler to follow the two gray haired ladies up my driveway. They are sisters, he is their guardian, he traffics their finds. They admonish my wares with experienced eyes. His wife is tall and slender, her attire manicured for a Sunday afternoon. Her sister is short with a crocked back and weird red rimmed eyes that bulge from the sockets, like a frogs eyes. A female Marty Feldman. Both women are wearing gray, it compliments their hair. I amuse myself watching while they scrutinize my memories.

"How much for this?" The old man is pointing at a Victorian gold wood frame with convex glass and Gesso designs on the front. Old man Riley and his 2 grandsons stare out at him, all 3 long dead. "Oh, that's an antique it's expensive. I'm sure you won't want to spend that kind of money!" I answered, still questioning my decision to sell it and another just like it at yard sale prices. I tell him the story about my great grandparents who were servants for the Rileys, to distract him. The Rileys were wealthy in 1908. My great grandparents lived year round at their summer home. But, bad luck befell them and when they abandoned the 200 acre property and everything in it my great grand parents acquired it for back wages. The old man just looked at me, said, "Oh." and turned away. His wife bought a long silver necklace with purple, plastic jewels for a quarter. I thought it looked good with her outfit and I told her so. She held it up to her chest and we admired it. Female Marty Feldman complained that she couldn't read anymore because her eyes were bad, my heart went out to her. Who could live without books?

All I need is this Karaoke machine, my dead x-husband likes the way I sing so he bought me a karaoke machine for Christmas. In between customers I sing Stevie Nicks, "Dreams" to my sister. Two neighbors come over, one wants to buy the machine. I can't part with it! My shadow self, the singer. My shadow self, the comedian. My shadow self, the writer. My shadow self holds on to objects, the signposts in my life that are recalled in stories each one a reminder of what was, what could have been and what is yet to be without them.

I embrace my shadow, the place in me where dreams are made . . .