My sleep pattern is all out of whack. I know why. I’ve been sick with a bad cold for almost two weeks now. I can handle the being sick part. It’s the not-sleeping-good part that wears on me.

For one thing, the sleep deprived mind does strange things. It wanders to places from my past. It raises questions at 4:30 in the morning that I can’t really answer.

My eyes open in the dark. I suspect that it’s long before the alarm is set to go off, but I don’t want to roll over and look at the clock. Sometimes it’s better not to know.

The covers are warm. I pull and tug at the pillow to get comfy. I tell myself that I’m not awake yet.

That’s when my mind spoke to me.

“Whatever happened to that picture that used to hang above the couch in the den at Mom and Dad’s house?”

This was a question for which I was not prepared. How could I be? I haven’t seen or thought about that picture in over 15 years. But my drug induced mind has decided that I need to think about this.

About ten minutes into the debate, I realized that sleep was not going to return. I might as well run with it. For some reason this old picture is the most important thing in my life at this moment.

You have to understand that this picture was a main stay of our home for about as long as I can remember. Mama went through several home decore changes over the years. Other wall hangings changed, but not the one in the den.

It was a framed photograph almost the size of a wall mural. Longer than the couch and tall enough to fill the space above the couch to within inches of the ceiling.

It hung over the red brick wall in our den like it was part of the house.

I always loved that picture. An autumn scene, maybe someplace in the hills of Appalachia. The hardwoods in fall color. A few scattered pines. A clear blue sky and a lake in the foreground reflecting the curves of the rolling horizon.

I have no idea where it came from. I was probably about six when they put it there, though I don’t remember it going up on the wall.

In the edge of the water, among the shadows, there laid  a fallen log that reminded me of one just like it in our own lake at the farm.

The log was mostly hidden beneath the surface. One stub of an old branch rose above the water at a slight angle. As a boy, I often thought it looked like a shark moving through the water.

This was a color photograph on plain paper. This was not a painting. And I’m trying to see my parents somewhere finding this thing and thinking, “We ought to take this home. That’d look good in the den.”

At about 4 foot by 8 foot, I can only assume that they brought it home like a rolled up piece of wallpaper. I’m pretty sure that Dad glued it to a thin piece of plywood and made a pine frame for it.

It wasn’t elegant, but they didn’t really go for elegance. It  gave a warmth to the room. It fit who they were. That picture just belonged right where it hung.

And here I am wondering what happened to it.

I have no idea. I let my sister handle all the arrangements for the estate sale. She was retired. I was still working. I didn’t even go to the sale. I didn’t want to go.

We had taken the few things we wanted from the house. You know how that goes. Keepsakes. Taking their stuff to add to your stuff.

I thought about the picture, but it was so big. I really didn’t have anywhere to put it. So I just let it go.

My mind, however, is asking me why I didn’t keep it. I’d rather be sleeping but apparently this is more pressing.

Here’s what I finally decided. Sometimes it’s easier and maybe even better to keep the memory of a thing than to keep the thing itself.

After 50 years of hanging in our den, the picture was a little faded. It was probably covered in soot from the smoke leak in the wood stove that Dad never fixed. The wood frame was cracking.

Somehow I don’t think that owning the real deal would be near as good as the memory I have of that picture.

I see that picture in my mind and I think of the life we lived in that room. Dad napping in his recliner. Mom peeling oranges over a newspaper in her lap. Carol Burnett and Billy Graham on the TV. A late evening bowl of Neapolitan ice cream.

For a moment, still under the covers, a simple part of my life came back to me. It made me grateful. It made me smile. It made me ready to start my day.

But before I moved, I spoke out loud to my folks. Quietly, but audibly. Partly because I was keenly aware of their presence in my memory. Partly because it’s a special season of the year.

“Merry Christmas,” I said. “It sure ain’t the same without you.”

I rolled over to look at the clock.  It’s 5am. So I turn on the lamp, and put my feet on the floor.

I still don’t know what happened to that picture.