A family sits around a table doing a thousand-piece jigsaw, and the puzzle quietly stands in for something much harder. The poem never says it outright, but the details suggest a sister or daughter who is seriously ill or fading. She is "still and squeezed dry," smiling "from far away," and the family cannot find where she fits.
Each person copes in their own way. The mother works by sections, the brother matches pieces to the picture, the middle sister builds the frame, and the brother-in-law blames someone for hiding a piece. These are all ways of seeking order or someone to blame. The father stops trying to fix anything and simply holds his daughter's hand.
The speaker, who sorts pieces into small piles, ends in helpless longing. The mood is tender, tired, and sad. There is not enough room or time, and no method can solve this.