A Little Restoration by Emmi Khor
The Shadow-Sticks
The troubles of the world ooze into their sleep.
Their dreams of comfort darken with despair,
draining them raw,
leaving them brittle.
It is time to rejuvenate,
so the world can hope again.
At the blackest of night they rise, stick-like figures with pen-scratched heads stutter-step down from their homes in the mountains. Their limbs stretch long, creeping silhouettes extending from the shadows, belying their size as they tiptoe past a sleeping canine, linking arms in case its breath blows them away. In stilted progress, they enter into the valley where a sleepy town lay.
The search begins.
Shiny eyes peer at flying leaflets billowing past like scarves in the wind. Their onyx gazes peer into bins tipped-over, finding succulent texts on waxy paper, covered by discarded sliced onions and lettuce strips glued with mayonnaise. Moving on, they squint at lyrical prose on lamp posts and concrete walls—forgotten concerts from bygone years.
On spindly limbs they walk, craning their scraggly heads high at a park bench; a precious newspaper sits neatly folded on the edge. Silently, they give thanks to its previous reader for the gift. Lifting, pushing, scrabbling, shoving, they climb the leg onto the seat. It takes several—rolling and pulling, stumbling and falling—to open a page. They gather on one side, weighing down the paper as it attempts to flip in the breeze. Others crawl across the print, following each letter on each page.
Searching.
Jubilation bursts from lipless mouths, rapid chitters as they reach the announcements and engagements column, filled with sweetness and poetry. Long fingers tear flimsy sheets with care, tenderly tucking the pieces away.
Further down the road, other shadow-sticks move on rickety limbs. They peek into a shop window crowded with pre-loved armchairs, well-used lampshades, and worn side tables. A light is on at the back; a pair of dreamers sit, heads bent close working so late it’s early in the morning.
A stick finger points, its shadow reaching through the window and landing on a business card fallen to the ground. The shadow-sticks stir, buzzing with anticipation. A group breaks off, making their way under the door. They crowd in around the slim rectangle, reading the lines. Warmth washes over them—this is one to treasure. Many limbs lighten the load. Raising the card over their heads, they wobble their way out.
The thick paper scrapes noisily, its edge catching under the door. They freeze, heads pricked towards the shop, but the dreamers are caught in their own magic, weaving their threads with love.
The shadow-sticks continue through town, diving into household bins, exploring behind slatted gates, sifting along the curbs and down the stormwater drains. They discover love-letters long past their cherish-by dates; daily messages finished with scrawled hearts; and well-wishing cards, their wishes spent—there are too few, and too far in between.
When dawn rubs her sleepy eyes and raises a yawn, when shadows can no longer hide within shadows, they take their leave. With waning shadows more round than pointed, and scratchy heads softening with mossy growth, their movements are less staccato, lightening with the skies.
Back in the depths of the mountain, they’re welcomed back by their shadow-kin. Gathering around, they watch the unwrapping of each piece, chittering their delight. Together, they choose a space for each piece to grace their walls.
The foundation of their caves is the bedrock of the mountain. The foundation of their spirit is pasted in print and scrawls around their homes: With love; We kindly invite…; Wishing you happiness; xoxo kisses. So many words—forgotten, castaway, neglected—but not here. In this home, they give new life.
The highlight of tonight’s find is a business card. It’s given a place in their center, like a hearth. They huddle close, absorbing the words that are revitalizing the warmth in their homes, and hope in their hearts.
‘Restorer: Treasures of your heart restored with love.’
It flavors their palette like rainbows after the gray of rain.
As the sun soak its warmth into the mountains, the shadow-sticks tangle together into a lush and mossy pile, and drift into a golden slumber.
They begin to dream, sending wisps of hope into the world, seeking dreamers in need of a little restoration.
