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The Shadows at the End of the World

The Shadows at the End of the World

Last updated on: October 25, 2025 at 11:54 pm by Mary Pezzulo

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The Shadows at the End of the World 2025-10-25T23:54:18-04:00 Mary Pezzulo

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A cat casting a long shadow

image via Pixabay

The cat thinks shadows are solid objects.

I’ve never had a cat before. Charlie is my first, so I don’t know how unique this is for cats. Ever since Charlie has come to live with me, she’s been fascinated by her own shadow. When she’s outside at noon or late in the evening, when shadows are especially distinct, she gets a running start and jumps on top of her shadow, smacking it, scratching it, rolling over headlong in her zeal to bring it to justice. And then she loses interest and goes to hide in the shadow of a neighbor’s pickup truck, believing herself to be invisible.

Yesterday I went out to play with her before I had to go downtown to teach my art class at the church outreach. I petted and complimented her until she grew tired of me, and then she walked slowly to the middle of the road. She stopped when she got to the sharp triangular shadow cast by the house across the street, and lay down there, grooming herself with her tongue. She seemed to think that the dark corner was a rug to sit on.

I paced back and forth in front of the house, worrying.

It’s that time in the Autumn when it’s warm enough that you don’t want your sweater in the sunshine, and chilly enough you’ll regret not having it if you walk in shade. The wind blows ice needles but the sun is glorious. I’ve been walking in the Union Cemetery every day, watching the trees go gold against blue and gold against gray. October is a month of contrasts.

November may be a bad month: not for me personally, but for the people I love.

The disabled Baker Street Irregular was playing on the porch of the house down the block. She waved and said “Hi, Miss Mary!” I waved back. She is doing better now that the summer’s over and there’s school five days a week. She comes to the after school lessons with her princess backpack and lunchbox, and listens. She is happy.

The grandmother of the Baker Street Irregulars has been terrified. She keeps asking people to turn their hearts to Jesus and pray for the re-opening of the government. If it doesn’t re-open, she will not be able to feed her grandchildren.

The mad king is busy tearing apart the White House to build himself a golden ballroom. His servants are gleefully murdering fishermen in the Caribbean and kidnapping people off the street. Meanwhile, the price of food gets higher every week. Congress hasn’t been in session for a month, and the government shut down weeks ago. The mad king has frozen emergency funds for food stamp benefits for the poor in order to blackmail the Democratic party. The cruelty of doing this just before the holidays is beyond the pale.

We ourselves haven’t had food stamps since 202o; we’re always hovering just a bit above the line where we might qualify. But nearly all the other hardworking families in this part of LaBelle rely on them. It’s not something people are ashamed of around here. It’s just a fact of life. The other day, Jimmy’s boy came to visit and said “Do you have any mangos? Mangos are good. When you get your food stamps, you should buy me a mango.” He thinks food stamps are something that happen to everyone. Next month, they’re happening to no one. And there’s nothing I can do to make them come back.

Charlie darted up to the yard again, and followed me around the back of the house to the garden. There are a few blossoms on the lilac bush, a reaction to the drought, and those are the only flowers. The vegetable plants are all dead. The sunflowers are drying on my back porch, an ugly pile of brown sticks. The goldfinches are gone– there are only the gray and white pigeons.

The cat continued to the alley and then, seeing that I didn’t follow, found another shadow to sit in.

The Artful Dodgers’ house is still vacant, with one windowpane missing and the yard all full of weeds. I will never see them again, and even if I could, I don’t even know what I’d say.

Of course, thinking of the Artful Dodgers put me in mind of The Lost Girl’s children, who I haven’t seen in the longest time.

My mind began to plot out that fantasy I’ve had so many times: the one where I win or inherit millions of dollars and make everything right.

Of course, I would buy this house from the landlord, replace the lead-painted windows, fix the gutters and paint over the wood paneling. Of course I’d buy the haunted house next door and bulldoze it to plant an orchard. Of course I’d buy a brand new car that doesn’t break down. But so much more important, I would save all of my friends.

I’d hand the grandmother of the Baker Street Irregulars a roll of cash the size of her usual food stamp disbursement, and a big sack of Christmas gifts to keep for the children. I would buy Jimmy the Mechanic a car that wouldn’t need fixing every several weeks to keep it running. I would throw a massive Thanksgiving party for all the children at the church and send them home with presents and treats to last until January. I’d start a fund so that instead of just showing them slideshows and books, I could take them on field trips to the museum and to famous historical sites. We could all live in peace in this ridiculous tumbledown Appalachian neighborhood while the whole world fell into ruin around us, and nothing bad would ever happen to the people I love.

I have wanted so many things I can’t possibly have: to be a movie star, to be a nun, to be a bioethics professor. To make my family love me. To be a middle-class grand multipara stay-at-home mom with an immaculate house and garden. To be welcome at a parish and find a Catholic community. To be loved. To be a saint.

Now all I want is to be myself, here where I live now, content as I’m learning to be, with my friends happy and content as well, with no mad king, with no hunger, with no worries, with no dangerous times ahead. Nothing to fear and nothing to go wrong, just an ordinary life. And I can’t have that either.

The cat darted back to the front of the house, and I followed.

She placed herself on top of the shadow across the street, and curled up there.

My ride came to take me to the church for my art class.

By the time I got back, it was evening, and the shadows stretched out to the end of the world.

Mary Pezzulo is the author of Meditations on the Way of the Cross, The Sorrows an d Joys of Mary, and Stumbling into Grace: How We Meet God in Tiny Works of Mercy.

Steel Magnificat operates almost entirely on tips. To tip the author, donate to “The Little Portion” on paypal or Mary Pezzulo on venmo

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