Pieces big and small

George clung to the piece in his hand, trying to remember where it went. 

And where he was.

The woman across from him wore a familiar ring. “I think that belongs in the clouds,” she said, pointing to a void in the puzzle whose outline fit the shape within his grasp.

“Malina.” A lifetime of memories came and went. “Can we finish this after dinner?”

“We already ate, love.”

His tongue had the distinct aftertaste of his wife’s potatoes au gratin. “Right.” He reached for another piece. It was dark brown with a whisper of green, like where the mountain met the grass in the tattered landscape he was reassembling. It locked into place with a satisfying and familiar sound. 

He loved puzzles, though he always found them strange. They’re riddled with holes, yet you could still see the big picture. The mind was funny like that, always filling in the gaps. Or at least it was when he was younger. Now, he didn’t find his mind all that humorous, and it wasn’t filling him in on much of anything.

Was every memory a piece? He pondered. The interjambs and sockets of his soul? His mother’s smile; the way Margaret Morris held his hand at the school dance; learning how to fish; kicking open the hotel door and carrying Malina over the threshold; yesterday’s lunch; the birth of his daughter. Was his life nothing more than a vague image spread across God’s coffee table?

He prayed his family was a corner piece: unambiguous, easy to find, and the last to be forgotten. He prayed his hobbies had smooth edges. He prayed his friends gathered where the picture was most distinct.

“Keep a journal,” the doctor had told him. “Like a memoir for an audience of one.”

“How can I write what I don’t know?” he demanded. “The mind isn’t a book. It’s a puzzle. And I’m losing pieces.”

Pieces big and small.

“That one looks like it could fit over there.” Malina’s voice jolted him into the present as she guided his hand to a smattering of painted flowers.

“Can we finish this after dinner?” George asked. A hint of starch and cheese lingered in his mouth. “Did we eat already?” He spat. “What poison are you feeding me?”

“It’s what I always make on your birthday. You love it.”

“You don’t know what I love.” The anger swelled within him as the landscape of his life perforated and collapsed, and all that was left was the empty canvas and the shadow of a woman crying.

“Please, honey. Calm down,” the stranger begged. 

George slammed his palm on the table and tossed aside his favorite things, his tears blotting the unrecognizable shapes that clung together through the chaos.

A lifetime of memories came and went. And for a moment, he remembered where he was. 

“How many pieces can I lose before I’m no longer myself?” he shouted.

Malina hugged him with familiar arms. 

And together, they picked up the pieces.