Picture This

I can’t keep a picture in my head for more than a moment. The images I have behind my eyes flicker like an old home movie. They dance like flames and wisp themselves away like smoke. I’ve never had the opportunity to forget what someone looks like, because I don’t really remember them in the first place.

I can’t give directions to anyone, because I can’t open a map in my head, let alone fold it back up properly. I can’t play checkers or chess or backgammon because I can’t hold the pieces where I plan to place them, to see if my strategy is worthwhile. Knights and rooks and tiles float weightlessly, refusing to still themselves.

I can’t do a mind journey or any other relaxation exercise that starts with “Picture yourself in your happy place” because I immediately panic. For God’s sake, the last thing I need when I’m anxious is to start with an impossible task. Besides that, my happy place is black and dark and filled with frustrating snapshots that elude my grasp.

Being unable to carry colour chips in my head, home decorating is always a leap of faith. Bringing the bathtub to “Linens ‘N Things” is not an option and go figure I’d end up with sorta-but-not-really Martha Stewart green fixtures in my bathroom and no budget to replace them in white. Once, I had to return a set of slipcovers three times in order to match them to an area rug too big to fit in the trunk of my car. Who knew there were so many shades of beige that could turn to baby shit brown once applied to a couch?

So you learn to cope. You ask for landmarks, not compass points. You play cards and do puzzles. You breathe deeply and listen to good music. You carry paint chips and throw pillows and towels and cameras around with you.

But here’s the hard part…

I can’t remember the look on the face of my first lover, the first time.

I can’t find my husband in a daydream.

And I can’t see my daughter from my desk.