I hate puzzles. Not the puzzles of life, as those intrigue me. The ones in the box that have a thousand pieces that all look the same, except for the edge ones, which almost look the same. Who has patience for assembling a perfectly nice enough picture that some sadist decided to cut up into a thousand pieces and throw into a box for the sole purpose of reassembling it, to make the picture whole again? Kind of a sick game, if you ask me. And yet, I will admit that going away for a few days to Maine two weekends ago, provoked that sort of nostalgic feeling of sitting around a table with someone I love and working on a puzzle together. Hence, I bought a puzzle which was started in our little cottage in Maine and because we didn’t have, in my estimation, about 14 years, to complete it, was disassembled and travelled back to the loft. Upon our return, my FHB brought the box of pieces to the dining room table and began his journey toward his idea of nirvana, in the form of a puzzle. Thanksgiving is coming in three days. We are having guests who apparently will sit at one end of the table while the puzzle takes up the other half. Perhaps in 2018, the table will be available to a larger crowd. I’m not optimistic.
The irony is that as I pick up pieces from the floor that the cat plays hockey with, I use my keen eagle eyesight and find the critical pieces that my FHB spent two hours looking for. When I find them, and place them, his response is not “Thank you!” but rather “Son of a bitch, I just spent hours looking for them and didn’t sleep last night wondering whether the box had only 998 pieces!”. Where is the normal in that statement? I hoped for gracious appreciation. Perhaps another time, in another galaxy, far, far away.
Hoping that the pieces all come together as we join with our family on Thursday. When the day unfolds, I will be full of grace and gratitude for all that surrounds me….all 1000 pieces and those that I love. Happy Thanksgiving.