I sit and do puzzles all day.


Hoping once the pieces fit together,


Things will make sense.

Hoping when I look at the picture at the end,


I might feel some joy.

It’s a daily ritual.

I spend hours sorting pieces:


By edges,


By colors,


By pattern,

Then organizing them:


Aligning them,


Fitting them,


Slowly rebuilding,

What once was whole.

I sit and do puzzles all day.


It is a daily dedication
to what was,

Trying to correct what went wrong,


Trying to find a sense of self,

Within the beautiful pictures
that unravel.

When the picture is done,

I feel unsatisfied,


And hastily open another,

Hoping this one,

Will show me what my future looks like.

My hands move
in clockwork motions,


Mindlessly sorting,

Trying to find something,

To keep occupied,


As I wait for a sense of peace
and familiarity
to settle,

Into the life that is now mine.

My hands slowly work:

And move,


And sort,

And organize,


And align,


And rebuild,


And tear apart,


And rebuild.

I finished my puzzles.


Now I frame them.

I’m hoping that when I look back,

This time will be a precious memory, 


Something to cherish,


Something to hold close,


Something to display.

Right now it doesn’t feel like it.

I’m waiting for the day,

That life without you,


Is no longer called
a life without you,

Where life without you,


Is no longer marked by your absence,


Filled by my own presence.

I still haven’t found that feeling.

So I sit by my puzzle,


Sorting:


And organizing,

And aligning,


And thinking,

And hoping,

I start to feel normal again.