Shadow Hand In bed at a very late hour, Noah and Monday, the little white terrier that was his guest, lay contemplating the ceiling. The bedside lamp was on, and Noah was using his hand to cast an exaggeratedly long shadow above them. Noah said to the dog, “Sometimes, Monday, I get tired. Sometimes I feel like I'm trying to be someone I'm not. Or someone it's too hard to be. Or maybe just being who I am is too hard.” Noah had the dog’s full attention. In fact, it appeared by the way it turned its head to be awaiting further explanation. “You know, you’re not like Sir Barksalot, my old dog, because you’re very quiet most of the time. But you’re just like him the way you listen. I always thought he understood me better than most people. Maybe you do too. So maybe you can help me with this.” Monday’s tail flicked back and forth, just like, Noah thought, someone nodding their head in agreement. “So, my teacher asked me if I thought I was an old soul. Because I want to write about how not to feel alone. She says I'm only twelve years old. How in the world could I know about something like that? I don't think she liked it when I laughed. I don't know why I laughed. I just know what I know. It seemed funny to have somebody tell me I shouldn't. That I couldn't possibly. “So I looked up old soul. It's like this shadow hand. It's like somebody reaching forward from the past to tell me something that they knew back then. And that somebody was me before I was who I am now. That's pretty crazy, don't you think? “Or maybe you're an old soul too. What you think?” And then he felt somehow like beginningless time, a small and helpless thing, was curled up beside him, just wanting to be held. And then he felt great love. And then they fell asleep, the two of them together, as outside the house a dense fog, like a blanket, rolled in from offshore. 13 June 2024 Texas Jim Prospect, Nova Scotia www.granitecoast.ca