shadow dance

I’m walking through

Balboa Park. To Spanish

Village, in search

of ceramics. Sculptures,

mugs, plates. Blue. I

want to gaze upon things

made by hands. I pass the

Botanical Building—a

lattice masterpiece

of redwood. Where green

bamboo trees peek out.

Where a guitarist picks

Asturias. The first full

song my son played. I

see him now, sitting with

Rodrigo in the front room

of our San Francisco flat.

And they play. And they

smile. And I watch them from

the shadows. Now I am

making my way up to the

plaza where pre-dusk shadows

dance. Where more memories

return—the place of my first

performance. It was Summer

Camp and I think I was nine.

The Princess and the Pea and

I was the poor princess tortured

by one tiny pea beneath

piles of mattresses. And I

was told to play her as

ridiculous, too sensitive,

too thin-skinned. To make the

audience laugh. But I could

never wrap my head around

that. Still can’t, all these

years later, walking through

the shadows at dusk. For I,

like her, am too-thin-skinned.

Can feel a pea and sense

a snarl. And hatred hurts

my bones. Why do we see

this as silly? Why is

feeling a failure? I tire

of trying to be unblinded

by the sun. Maybe

where I am called is

away from sun, to

seek solace in halls

and dance with the shadows.