Shadows With Hinges

On the day before she died She told me shadows had hinges That they open and hold memories Full of all the light that’s within us She pointed with conviction to the shadow underneath her hospital room tv And with dilated pupils Said Chloe, can’t you see? Each memory from the shadow was attached to a spring You could take it out and hold it and relive it again But you had to be careful, not to drop it or bruise it To hold a memory was fragile But worse was to lose it She rambled on with vivid description About how inside her shadow Paintings existed She described the colours and the moments as they blended Just like the paints on her easel It was spoken in a language Honest and flowing and confusing and real About the life she had lived and the way she could feel She could pick them apart Their nuances and tones She watched the blank screen Like it was a montage of everything she had known I know fentanyl dripped through the blood in her veins Up her arms, to her brain, to mask the unfathomable pain But tell me Why Did I Feel like the one that was insane My perception of life changed that day As I looked in her eyes and believed what she had to say As I watched her mind replay a lifetime of moments As she realised, finally, it was about to be over My perception of reality changed that day As we sat aside one another and her pain slowly drifted away I don’t see the hinges of shadows I can’t hold my memories as springs But I can live my most precious moments while I am actually living them I don’t see paintings in frames of my extraordinary days I don’t see the brushstrokes and hues of the woman I became But I have the chance to stop now When my life feels overwhelmingly alive And hold my moments rather than live to survive She handed me a painting of my own kind that morning In a language of my own between heartbreak and mourning She handed me a gift greater than holding a moment She handed me the chance to hold my own life and own it I don’t see paintings in frames of my extraordinary days I don’t see the brushstrokes and hues of the woman I became But I won’t look back hoping to once again have the chance To sift through shadows with hinges And retrace my dance I don’t see paintings in frames of my extraordinary days I don’t see the brushstrokes and hues of the woman I became I see the fleeting reality of my beautiful life Because of her I know the value of living that with the gratitude it requires