Free Kaleidoscope by Tracy Campbell Page B

been nearly filled up; only one or two pages of blank paper remained after I'd retold my exciting memory of the thrift store. That meant that Ms. Orowitz would want me to give it to her when I saw her again on Tuesday.
    I fretted for a moment, hoping I wouldn't have some other revelation while she had my journal where I'd be forced to delay writing about it in the mean time. But really...how likely was that? Given that tonight was the first time I had seemed to remember anything significant in recent years, it didn't seem likely that more would follow suit any time soon.
    I stowed the journal away on my nightstand and glanced at the small gnome. I'd named him Phillip and perched him on my windowsill. My hope was that by placing him there, his presence would remind me that my memory did exist somewhere. I also hoped, in my strange way, that allowing him to see the scenery and the days passing by would make up for the fact I had completely forgotten about the figurine's existence. I had relegated him to a life of solitude among other stored knick-knacks for so long in Mom's closet.
    I knew it was a silly concept, and it seemed ridiculous even as I thought about it. However, feeling like a confused and apathetic shadow to the world, watching it pass you by from the outside and feeling more alive inside your own head, was no small matter. When something comes along that you can cling to, something which makes you feel like you're somehow a part of what's going on around you, you hold on to it. Whatever it is, you hold on in the fear that if you let go, it will all slip away and you'll become a shadow again.
    It's why I enjoyed painting so much. Creating something was empowering, but it was also grounding to create something that other people acknowledge. It made it real, and as a result, made me present.
    So what if this gnome was important to me? I didn't care because it felt normal to place importance on something, even something that seemed as insignificant to the casual observer as a ceramic figurine  I got at a thrift store when I was fourteen years old.
                  I laid my head to rest in the darkness of my room, broken only by a sliver of moonlight as it snuck through the drawn mini blinds, closed to the cold. The room reverberated with silence, and my mind reeled in the possibilities of what could happen from this point forward.
    Unlocking one memory was a big deal—I didn't know if I  placed too much importance on it or not, but wasn't that the whole goal behind going to therapy and doing these memory exercises—to remember something? I recalled again the image of myself digging for a buried treasure, blindly searching while knowing that it did indeed exist...somewhere. But now, the explorer found a small glimmer of hope, a small glimmer of gold in a vast expanse of empty soil.
    Keep digging , I thought. It was this image and mantra that eventually lulled me into a fitful, curious sleep.
     
    ***
     
    Morning came to me this time in a haze of confusion and grogginess.
    I looked around for the source of a noise as I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. I'd slept in until just past 11am. This was unusual for me, but my fevered dreams, fueled by my mind going a million miles per hour even in my sleep, were a likely culprit for this. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, widening them in an effort to force myself into a waking state.
    Even more unusual than sleeping in, however, was the source of the sound that woke me. It wasn't Murray pawing gently at my door, or any sound from outside. It had been the gentle buzz of my phone as it vibrated against my desk across the room.
    I blinked, dragging myself into a standing position and staggering towards the desk. I detached the phone from its charging cord and slumped into the chair, glancing for a moment at my landscape painting, which I'd actually completed a few days prior. I was proud to have finished it, but when was a painting ever really complete? I