Art by Savannah Welch
As kids, my friends and I would turn off the lights
and cover up the windows so that the shadows overtook
the room. We’d all hide, as one person searched,
arms extended, trying to separate darkness from
darkness. No longer able to rely on mere observation,
we had to feel our way through the world, to hold it
in our hands, so we could tell the difference between
a curtain and a shirt sleeve. We learned to chase after
disembodied voices, laughter that echoed, filling up
the whole room. Without sight, we finally saw
the depth of a shadow, let our imagination complete
what was only hinted at but never fully revealed.
Back when there was still such a thing as darkness.
Now, there is only the light, which emanates
from the phone sitting on my bedside table, cutting
through the dark room like a beacon, illuminating every
curve of every piece of furniture, leaving nothing
to the imagination. I squint against the glare as I reach
for it so that I can read the disembodied words of friends,
whose voices I’ve nearly forgotten. In my hand, I hold
this world turned digital, where I’ve become an observer
of how other people live, scrolling from light to light
with one finger, until I am no longer able to discern
where this world ends and my own begins, until the room
around me falls away, the distant hallway, my desk, my bed,
until there is only me, sitting alone in a halo of blue light.
