Yes, I should post pictures. And I will. The problem is that I lost the cable to connect my camera to my computer. Then I bought a gizmo to do the job and now can't find that, either. I specifically remember putting it "where I can't lose it," the kiss of death in my world. Let me put something "somewhere safe," and it will never be seen again by human eyes.
My main set of house and car keys is missing, too—has been since Christmas. I distinctly remember putting the keys down, thinking, "That's a bad place to put those keys. I'll never remember where they are." I don't.
It isn't just the camera cable and the keys that have been missing. I've been AWOL from my own life, lost in a depression so thick and deep I forgot about the light. The forgetting was the worst—you don't look for things you don't remember.
At the end of June when—by some miracle—I got on my bike and rode away, I left a mess behind. The table beside the red leather chair was littered with stuff that had been there so long I'd stopped seeing it as a problem. I couldn't actually walk into my generous walk-in closet or see one square inch of the expansive bathroom counter. I'd stopped eating on the breakfast bar because it was stacked with paper that had been there since February.
With every blow that landed over the last year or so—Katie finding her birth parents and Dad hitting end stage COPD and loved ones getting sick and publishing falling apart—I shrank into my head a little more. I'd left my body for anything but the most practical purposes, like walking the dog or carrying in groceries for Mom and Dad. I ate for comfort, searching for something that simply cannot be found in cheese or chocolate.
When what you need is a hug and what you get is chocolate chip cookies, how many does it take? I can't count that high.
Molly rolled me into a breeze that blew away the cobwebs. With clearer eyes, I see the problems and I'm working on the solutions. It may not be magic, but damn—it's magical. And when I find the cable or the gizmo, I'll show you.