The Shaman




 The Shaman


He was intimately holding an inanimate object, cooing to it in a voiceless voice. The sky was dark, but the light highlighting the boardwalk behind me gave form to some shadows. The shaman's stick was leaning on the church's doorway and his bed things softened the entrance.

In the past, a black beggar used to sleep there. Then, an elderly woman hissed at him one day in a "shameful" whisper: "In God's doorway!" He then shambled up into the sunshine, never to return.

The shaman took over the shrine, holding the holiness in his intricately carved stick with a swirl at the top. Sometimes he grasps it, staring at it as if he is beheld by his own spell. 

Today the shaman was holding a stuffed animal, affectionately murmuring to it. I must have been staring because the fuzzy thing suddenly came into focus: it was none other than Cookie Monster! While I agree that Cookie Monster is a good companion and confidant (when I was sick I would curl up with him on the couch), a series of thoughts crowded my brain. For instance, we have a Cookie Monster on our couch. Since the shaman lives round the corner, I began to wonder if the stuffed animal had fallen out of our window. Or, maybe my partner had given our monster to him. If it was the latter, it was a nice thing to do, to give the shaman some comfort. Still, it would have been nice if he had asked...

My pace doubled. I wanted to check on our Cookie. As soon as I entered the door, I saw the blue monster grinning on the couch. I let out my breath. All thoughts of the homeless man living in the church door faded into the indigo of the evening. 



Photo: <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/quirkjunkjournals-29268193/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=8182047">Gill Eastwood</a> from <a href="https://pixabay.com//?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=8182047">Pixabay</a>


Text: Kristen Mastromarchi

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