I’ve Run the Border

I’ve run the border. There was a missing piece. A doorway. I must leave it open as I spread the colorful cuts, turning them over. Just like fingering an unopened book, each piece precious in my grip. One day it will be over. A sigh will leave my lips. I will glance over and over at the artistic landscape. Joseph Stella will speak once again to my eyes, like a sip of expensive Cabernet, like the first taste of creamy cheese on a cracker. My dreams take shape with tabs and blanks, interlocking an escape. Will I want to submit to another box? Us humans love to cut things apart and put them back together. Idly, we busy our minds and hands, knowing there’s a meaning, whether in the present, the past or the future. Where do we place our stakes? I remember a puzzle laid out on my grandma’s table. Known, was that my cousin would often stop by and they would work together, spend quiet time, perhaps speaking every now and again. My grandson had me purchase this one-thousand piece monstrosity. No need for me to work too hard, he will be pleased to sit at my table. I went through the pieces twice until I had all of the border, except the door, but as I laid out all the pieces, that elusive door appeared. Euphoric, I move on to the focus feature - merely the heavy red and green foliage near the bottom and arrange the pieces that are alike. We separate - we come back together. Doesn’t a puzzle teach us?