The time thing

Ok, I have finally found a way to describe the way time feels so relative these days, the way that Ramsy's absence feels far longer than two months even though the days do not drag, the way that a day from a year ago seems more recent than the day of his death.  It has to do with memories and how they occur.  Instead of the habitual manner of particular memories being more vivid or less vivid according to their place in chronological time- typically more vivid if more recent- this is how I experience them right now:

I am in a darkened circular room.  There is no furniture; I am just standing in the middle.  On the walls are scattered squares of light and colour, like a whole bunch of slides projected in random fashion, some overlapping.  All of them are at least slightly out of focus, and some of the images are very blurry.  As I wait, one of the images jumps into sharp focus.  It might be something Ramsy and I did together in the past year- oh, it's me bringing him a drink of water in the radiation waiting room, or leaning out the van window at the Burger King drive-through to get him a Whopper (one of the only things that tasted good to him while he was on chemo), or him lying in the hospital bed after his biopsy while I read to him.  That slide might stay lit up for a whole hour, or fade in and out of focus over a day, or just flash for a moment.  Then there's a picture of us walking side-by-side in Seattle the first time we spent the day together alone, or one of him laughing at my pitiful volleyball efforts on choir tour in 1990, or the two of us ice skating at the Bessborough hotel on New Year's Eve 1991 and making plans for our spring wedding.  Then one of him holding our newborn daughter in 2000... coaching our son's soccer team five years ago... knocking out a wall in our first house in Kelowna... sitting in his wheelchair in our kitchen here washing dishes with his one working hand... leading singing at his brother's wedding in 1997... driving his '88 (I think) Mazda 626 with the fan full blast on "cool" and his sleeves rolled up but the windows shut tight because the wind's noise makes conversation impossible... playing guitar accompaniment for our eldest daughter's solo last October...

No matter what year that memory was made, when that slide is in focus, it is right here, like it happened yesterday or is maybe happening right now.   When a slide is out of focus, it feels like a dream or something that happened very long ago.  Occasionally it's possible to bring a slide into focus myself by reading an old letter or looking at actual photographs, but most often these images appear and fade according to their own mysterious pattern.  Sometimes it's painful to see what shows up, and I feel something contract under my ribs; sometimes I am given the gift of laughter or joy with the picture; almost always, whatever it is, it's unpredictable and fascinating.