Imagine (Short)

Didn’t we all, in some form, imagine this?

How many end-of-world/pandemic/zombie apocalypse movies or television shows or stories are there? We’ve all been entertained by at least one. Or two. You know—where the politicians ignore the scientists, and some people listen to all the warnings and advice, and some don’t, and there’s that moment where you’re holding your breath and thinking at the characters, no, no, no, don’t do that, don’t go in there…

It's such a trope of the human experience—we can’t help but imagine the end of our collective selves. Stories, myths, entire religions are built around imagining An Ending. But envisioning An Ending almost always spurs imagining A New Beginning. In the human heart and soul and mind, it’s never really The End, is it?

Maybe that’s why the biggest shock of living through the collective Covid-19 pandemic experience has been, for me personally, losing my imagination.

I don’t mean my ability to suspend disbelief and enjoy a novel or movie or television shows.

And I don’t mean my ability to write fiction—thank goodness. I turned in a novel draft less than a week after the World Health Organization declared Covid-19 a pandemic on March 11, 2020. Since then, I’ve completed a revision. I’ve even worked on new fiction!

Sort of. I found myself contemplating a short story idea I had thirty-five years ago (yes, literally), and never quite made work. I have now, at last, finished the story to my satisfaction.

The story is not only born from the oldest-living idea in my imagination, it is also about, well, the end of the world. Or at least, An Ending, with a hint at A New Beginning. So I haven’t lost my fictive imagination—or at least, I can still slog around in old ideas. We’ll see how I fare when I have to come up with entirely new ideas.

What I have lost is my mundane, everyday imagination.

I’m one of these people who takes—that is, who used to take—‘envisioning’ to a ridiculous level.

Before giving a speech, or even just a short intro of someone else giving a speech, I’d envision myself giving it.

A slew of errands to run? I’d take a minute to ‘see’ myself doing them.

Going on a trip (back when that was a thing)? I’d ‘see’ myself going through check-in at the airport, then security, then lifting the carry-on into the overhead bin. Oh, and before packing that carry-on? I’d daydream about what to wear, and ‘see’ myself packing it. Then, and only then, could I do the task.

Oh sure, I also envisioned spectacular things. (Giving a speech because I WON THAT COVETED AWARD!) But that’s daydreaming, which most folks do.

At first, I didn’t realize I’d lost this constant mundane imagining to COVID-19. All I knew was that I felt like something was immediately missing after March 11. I told myself I was just nervous, scared, anxious, confused, depressed like everyone else.

And then sometime in April, it hit me.

That I’ve long been a chronic, compulsive imaginer-of-doing-the-basic-mundane-things before doing them. This was how I rehearsed life, made sure I completed what needed completing. I suspect my imagining-habit was also a coping technique for my over-anxious nature. And suddenly I could no longer do this thing that I hadn’t even really realized I did, that I relied on.

I know. It’s not like losing health, a job, a loved one, a life. Yet, the realization of the loss was a shock. And I was bereft.

I’ve tried to get this compulsive, integral, mundane, reflexive imagining habit back. I’ve tried forcing myself. C’mon Sharon, just see yourself getting in the car, driving to the post office, dropping off the package to mail to your daughter, stationed overseas.

And I can’t do it. I cannot imagine myself driving to the post office with the package. Oh, I do it. But without imagining it first. I can no longer make myself imagine any action in the future, no matter how mundane the action, no matter if that future is just five minutes later.

That means I also can’t imagine—as I once did at the beginning of this year—visiting our daughter overseas. Or her returning here. I still want those things. I just can’t conjure an image of her and me running to each other, hugging at the airport. Or having a cup of tea after she’s home.

Pre Covid-19, I would have easily imagined that. In fact, I can remember past imaginings of such. Even knowing the future would of course be a variation on what I imagined—I don’t delude myself that once upon a time I could accurately envision the future—I would have smiled at my imagining. And the imagining, even knowing it was not an actual portrayal of what was to come, would have made me smile, would have eased how much I miss her, calmed my worries about her.

Perhaps, in the face of Covid-19, losing my envisioning-the-future habit makes sense. Now I wonder, what was my habit really, other than delusion? None of us are assured of the next year, month, day, hour, minute.

Logically, I’ve known that for a long time. But now, tomorrow and all the tomorrows after tomorrow seem so vague, gray, foggy, uncertain. Maybe having an imagination that works in overdrive about what’s-next doesn’t make any sense in a pandemic.

Still, I miss it.

And I could never have imagined losing it.

Sharon Short is a novelist who also writes the occasional short story or essay. She is a three-time winner of the Ohio Arts Council Literary Artist Grant. As Jess Montgomery, she writes the literary historical Kinship mystery series set in 1920s Appalachian Ohio, and published by Minotaur Books. She is also the Literary Life columnist for the Dayton Daily News. Learn more at www.jessmontgomeryauthor.com and www.sharonshort.com.