Like always, the past is in the room with you. Like a shadow. You can’t not notice it.
It sits next to you, legs crossed, looking sharp. Clever. Shadowy. Dazzling. A tinkle of soft laughter here; a grin pasted there. Feet shuffled, legs re-crossed, hair tossed.
The only other noise is the halted, hesitant conversation. More than some silent seconds tick by.
Then you pick up an old joke, out of the blue, and you collectively mold it into something new. It gains more meaning, more worth. The laughter is new, genuine; the pleasure deep, true.
The past realizes its hold is slightly loose. That it is one trick short. Maybe it’s the laughter, maybe it’s the bright aura of the room; maybe it’s the light at the other end of the tunnel. But you can see through the past now. And you see that you can put it behind you.
Like always, the past will be in the room with you. But only like a shadow.