THE PUZZLE

One thousand pieces.

My mother works section by section: the white cat’s paws the green butterfly, the day her youngest daughter was born.

My brother looks at each piece in turn. He finds its twin in the picture on the box. He places it exactly where it belongs. And his twin sister, where does she go?

She is here, now, still and squeezed dry, close to completion. She smiles from far away when someone speaks.

My middle sister works the borders: Make the frame; the rest will fit in.

My brother-in-law insists that someone took the corners. The pieces we need are missing. Someone has a piece in her pocket.

My father comes to the table with coffee. He is in no section; no border can hold him. He can only hold his daughter’s hand.

I sort the pieces into small piles. Not enough room on this table, nor room enough here at all for this hardest of works, for these infinite pieces of time.