She likes to look at her shadow as she walks in the park.
She moves her hands and shapes take form on the ground. A small movement of her thumb and what was obviously a hand now becomes a face. A twist of the fingers and the character has a prominent chin, or a distinctive nose.
The late afternoons, or even evenings, are the best, when the shadows are long on the ground, and there are less people around.
She enjoys standing by the railings, incorporating the thin metal tubes into her imagery.
Occasionally she laughs, but it is a high pitched laugh and not particularly pleasant.
Shadows are black; they’re flat. They’re not unique. Everyone has a shadow; they’re merely different shapes, not different people. And she envies shadows for that.
Sometimes she hates her shadow.
But when she returns home, and looks at the bare walls, the complete lack of reflective surfaces, she longs to see her shadow again.
For her shadow has no scars.
Inside or out.