Missing pieces

​This morning I plugged the last remaining pieces into the 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle that I’ve been working on since Christmas. They were not the last ones. As it turns out, six pieces are missing, gathered up and thrown away as I cleared the living room on Boxing Day or devoured by the vacuum cleaner in the weeks since. Six gaps: Two of the skaters in Rockefeller Center are missing partners. Two high-rise walls have holes in them. A chunk of the night-time sky is gone, and one outline resembles a body falling from a nearby rooftop. I crawled around the living and dining rooms on my hands and knees, checking under furniture and rugs. I ran my fingers around and under cushions. No luck. Now what?

Can I give away a puzzle, knowing it’s not complete? Would I ever want to tackle it again without the sublime experience of seeing it whole and finished? Why does it bother me so much that I can’t finish it? It’s not like the pieces are lying in front of me and I can’t see how they fit together. For six or seven weeks, this puzzle has challenged me and entertained me, given me something else to think about when I need a break from the news of the world or my own to-do list. And I did find the right spot for every piece I had to work with. That’s something. But still they eat at me, these missing pieces.

Oh, come on! I am annoying myself now. This is a cardboard puzzle, not my life stretched out on the dining room table. That, I guess, I’ll finish some day. Some pieces of it will surely be missing, too.