Object permanence

One of the fundamental concepts in developmental psychology is that of object permanence, the understanding that objects continue to exist even when they cannot be seen, heard, or touched. There are different ideas about whether children develop this understanding or whether it's innate. Either way, it's considered important because it creates a sense of the object as separate from the observer.

Sandy used to joke that I'd never gotten to that developmental stage, or that I'd skipped it, because I was always surprised to learn that children had grown older in the time since I'd last seen them. Or that landscapes or cityscapes had changed, people had changed jobs or retired, or anything else that implied that life continued to go on even without me present. I told her that it wasn't that I missed out on learning object permanence, but that I took permanence too literally: people or things that were out of sight should somehow be frozen in time until I saw them again.

Maybe she's playing with a cat in Athens. If I find that exact
spot again, would I find her? Rational thought says no, but
there's a part of my brain that remains unconvinced.

Now I realize that I have the same issue with places. I've still not spent a night away from home since Sandy died, but I do yearn to travel everywhere we've been together. I think about retracing our paths, visiting the same places at the same time of year. And then the fantasy shatters, because I realize that I've been assuming I'd find Sandy there. The Sandy who was there with me before, waiting for me now. It's not the place I want to go to, but the time. It's Sandy.

There's a part of my brain that continues searching for her, in the same way that lost keys or a forgotten phone number tug at the subconscious. That part of my brain doesn't rest; it still feels the urgency in finding her. Sandy's missing! It raises the alarm over and over again, and other parts of my brain helpfully suggest where we might look, where she's been in. But I don't run to those places; I fear learning that there's nothing permanent about the places we've been.

Before going to bed at night, I wander into any rooms I haven't been in during the day. I don't expect to find her, but the alarm-sounding part of my brain says I'd be a fool not to check once again to see if she's there. Or if she's left me something. Or if I can feel her presence more strongly.

I've looked in many places for her, but so far the only place I'm certain to find her is in the rich tapestry of memory. So I retreat there often and there I find solace. There, I find her, a happier me, and our dreams for our future. And I avoid the disappointment and despair I fear I'd find in travel without her.