My Last Selfie

“Do you recognize either of the people in this picture?”

It’s the question I always ask, pretty much the first thing I say to most people I meet.

The woman looks at the picture I hold out to her, the glossy paper dimmed with time and handling, the edges frayed and worn. It a selfie, two people in the frame, a man and a woman, one clearly holding the camera, with a beautiful backdrop of forested mountains behind them. They’re both smiling, standing close together. Very close.

She looks at the photo. Really looks at it. Not a quick glance, dismissing my request, eager to get back to whatever she finds important in her life. Her eyes rest on it for a moment, and the slightest frown creases her brow. She looks at me, then back to the photo. Then back to me.

“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the woman before,” she says, and there’s a hint of amusement in her voice, like she’s sure this is all a joke. “But the guy is kind of familiar, now that you mention it.”

I force myself to smile. This reaction isn’t unique. It’s one of the better replies, but I’ve heard them all before. Still, it encourages me to press on. “Do you know his name?”

We’re standing at the edge of a bluff, over a popular scenic overlook. Beyond the railing of weathered split-rail wood, the world drops away, to reveal a wide valley. The descending slopes are cloaked in tall, majestic trees, pine and spruce mostly, dotted here and there with groves of beech and aspen. At the bottom, far below us, a river surges through the narrow defile it’s carved for itself, tumbling over rapids, throwing spray high into the air. It’s impressive, no doubt about that, but it’s not quite what I’m looking for.

She opens her mouth, about to make another quip. Then she hesitates. Maybe she sees something in my eyes, a hint of the weariness, of how very long I’ve searched for the right answer, the right place. “I’m sorry. I don’t.” The amusement is gone from her voice, but the frown has also disappeared. In its place she bears and expression of… sympathy? Compassion? Understanding?

Curious. Ordinarily, this is the part where I’d thank her for her time and walk away. I’ve asked the question, and that’s all I wanted to do when I saw her standing here, taking pictures of the beautiful natural display before us, using an actual camera. I was here, doing the same thing, so it was an easy approach and opening. Now, however, I find myself reluctant to move on so soon.

She makes it even easier. “So, you’re a photographer?” She gestures at the camera hanging from a strap around my neck.

I nod. “It’s a living.”

“Do you work for a magazine or media outlet?”

“No. Freelance. Gives me more latitude to go where I want.”

“And you picked the Blue Mountains?” she asks, one eyebrow arching. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s lovely. But it’s kinda been done before, you know?”

A more genuine smile crosses my face. Still tinged with a shadow of sadness, but I’m honestly happier right now than I’ve been in… as long as I can remember. “You might say I’m looking for a particular view.”

Clear understanding lights up her entire face. It’s magical. “The place where that picture was taken.” It’s not a question.

I nod again anyway.

“You don’t know who she is? Is that it?”

“Partly,” I say, shifting my weight, uncomfortable talking so much about this. I don’t meet a lot of people with this level of curiosity, and I’m not sure I like it. It’s as if they want to somehow make it their own problem. It feels like they want to take something away from me, when I’ve already lost everything. Even though the loss hurts, it’s my hurt, and I want to hold onto it.

Her eyes narrow. “You don’t know who he is either, do you?”

“No.” The words comes out as a whisper.

She reaches out and gently takes my hand, lifting it until I can see the photo myself. “Even though it’s a picture of you?”

“Retrograde amnesia,” I say, reciting the familiar explanation. Because I guess it’s time for it. “Head injury.”

She nods, slowly. It all makes sense to her now. “So you’re looking for the place where this was taken. So that maybe you’ll find someone there who knows who she is. Who you are.”

“Yes.” Again, I can’t speak above a choked whisper.

“For how long?” she asks, staring intently at my face. “How long have you been looking?”

“Nearly ten years. Ever since I woke from the coma. My only personal possession was this photo.” I give a wry grin, almost a grimace. “I think that’s the last selfie I took.”

“And you went looking for this place?”

I nod, touching my camera. “At first, taking pictures was just a way to help with the search. Looking for the right lighting and composition.” I shrug. “Apparently, I have a good eye. I made a job out of it, enough to get by. Keep moving, keep looking.”

“Ten years,” she says, as if she can’t believe it. “And you still haven’t found what you’re looking for. To have so much hope. That’s amazing.”

“It helps that I love photography,” I say, turning my gaze to the view. “To capture such beauty, to make it your own, and take it with you. To share it with other people, people who might not be able to see it otherwise.” Another real smile comes out. “I love it.”

She’s smiling again, too. “That sums it up. Perfectly.”

For a moment, we stand there, taking in the sight before us, a little lost in our own thoughts and feelings.

Then the moment ends. I clear my throat. Time to move on, I guess. “Well, it was nice meeting you. Thank you for…” For what? For wanting to hear my story? For sympathizing with me? For making me feel like maybe I haven’t lost everything? That if I can find one person who understands, then I can still hope that I might find what I’m looking for one day? “Thank you.”

She glances down, then back up. “So, you’re just going to keep on looking?”

“Yes.”

“Even if you don’t know that you’ll ever find her? Find… you?”

“I’ve come this far. I mean, what else would I do?”

“Hmmm.” She looks so thoughtful.

“What?” I can’t help but ask.

“I get it. I understand not wanting to give up.” She hesitates. Then she takes a deep breath. “But maybe you shouldn’t look at it that way. Maybe you don’t need to give up.” She looks right into my eyes. “Because maybe you’ve already found what you were looking for. Maybe you already know who you’re looking for, and just don’t realize it. Maybe you know who you are now, and don’t need to know who you were.” She shrugs, looking a little flustered. Angry or maybe frustrated. “Anyway, you’ll figure it out. When you do, maybe come find me.”

She turns and walks away, heading for a car parked nearby. I stay where I am, staring after her. A breeze picks up, lifting dust from the roadway, ruffling my hair. Then I look out at the panorama beyond the railing, so very like the background in the picture I hold. But not quite the same. I look at the woman in the picture, and I still don’t know who she is. What she was to me.

I look at the other face in the photo. I don’t know who he is. What he was.

But I know who I am. I’m someone who takes pictures, so that I have something to take with me. To hold onto.

But maybe I should learn when to let go.

On a sudden impulse, I open my fingers. The breeze takes the photograph and carries it away, out over the valley. In seconds, it’s gone from sight.

I turn and hurry after her, to take what I’ve been given, and hold on to what I’ve found.