Narrator: Calvin E. | Georgia, USA
My neighbor waved from his porch when I got home. I lifted a hand without really looking at him. We’d done the same thing for years.
His shadow stretched across his driveway. Mine stretched across mine. The sun was low behind us.
As I walked towards my house, his shadow came with me.
He stayed on the porch. I could see him leaning on the rail, one hand still raised. The dark outline crossed the grass between our properties and reached my front step. Its arm was down by its side now, although his wasn’t.
I stopped with my key out. The shadow stopped at my shoes. It had the wrong head: too narrow, tapering towards the top.
I said my neighbor’s name. He lowered his hand and went inside. The shadow snapped back across the lawn so quickly I only caught the movement at the edge of my sight.
I asked him about it the next day. He said he hadn’t been on the porch. His wife confirmed he’d been in bed with a stomach bug.
We’re still neighbors. I feel guilty about how carefully I look at him now. He’s a kind man. He helped me fit a new screen door the weekend after it happened, and I spent the whole time watching the ground.
