The Puzzle

The other day, when my mom moved from the Redwood City hospital to the Vallejo hospital, I had to move my puzzle.

My sister and I, and a few of our friends, had started a puzzle to help pass the time. We would sit in my mom’s hospital room, or out in the waiting area, or even in the hallway, and work on the puzzle.

It’s a cheapo puzzle – less than five dollars at the Kmart across the street, put together on foam board, also from Kmart. But it’s a really pretty puzzle – different scenes from an old magazine, all these men and women of different eras. Lots of colors, lots of pieces (no, it was not just a 300 piece puzzle. I’m not that boring. I promise it was 1000 pieces).

Since I had to move my puzzle from one city to another, I carefully placed it in my backseat, and hoped my driving would keep it from falling apart. When I got to Vallejo, it was still pretty whole – only a few pieces had fallen of the board. So I thought, hey, it made it this far, I won’t have any problem moving it from my car to my mom’s new hospital room.

I carried the puzzle through the parking garage, around a few buildings, an even down some stairs. And when I’m about 25 feet from the hospital entrance, the wind blows and catches my puzzle. I try to hold on to the board, hoping to keep the puzzle intact, but the wind is too strong – about 200 pieces fly off my puzzle board and scatter all over the sidewalk, the driveway, and even in the planter boxes.

I put my puzzle board down (there are probably about 300 pieces still together on the board) and rush to grab the fallen pieces before the fly off into the wind. Not only did I not want to lose them, I didn’t want to just leave them there – that would be littering! As I start to pick up the pieces, I realize (1) I don’t have a bag to put them in, and my pocket space is lacking and (2) the wind has flipped up my puzzle board, dropping the rest of the pieces on the ground, and flinging more of my hours of hard work onto the concrete.

I call my dad – he’s upstairs, and he brings me down a bag, and helps me pick up the runaway pieces. I look ridiculous – stooping over to pick up little pieces of cardboard, as people walk or drive by. People must think I’m crazy.

And as I’m picking up the pieces, I think to myself “There goes 6 hours of my life that I’ll never get back,” and “Do I care enough to put the puzzle back together?” I know puzzles are supposed to be tests of persistence and patience, but this one is just asking too much.

And then I think – well, that’s a metaphor for my life right now. Persistence and patience, but maybe I'm being asked for a little too much of each. Or maybe I’m giving this puzzle way too much significance.