Shadow play is among the few free entertainments left, and it must go on delighting children all around the globe. Derek N. Otsuji lives in Hawaii, and here’s his reminiscence.
Theater of Shadows
Nights we could not sleep—
summer insects singing in dry heat,
short-circuiting the nerves—
Grandma would light a lamp,
at the center of our narrow room,
whose clean conspiracy of light
whispered to the tall blank walls,
illuminating them suddenly
like the canvas of a dream.
Between the lamp and wall
her arthritic wrists grew pliant
as she molded and cast
improbable animal shapes moving
on the wordless screen:
A blackbird, like a mynah, not a crow.
A dark horse’s head that could but would not talk.
An ashen rabbit (her elusive self)
triggered in snow
that a quivering touch (like death’s)
sent scampering into the wings
of that little theater of shadows
that eased us into dreams.
