(Photo by: Shana Siskos)
I am grateful for the unspoken agreement that my husband and I honour: Only one of us is allowed to fall apart at a time. It has been my turn for the better part of two years.
I sit on the floor with all of it scattered around me.
Clutching handfuls of puzzle pieces trying desperately to make them fit. I look at the parts I’ve already done and can’t figure out how I ever got them together.
And along comes a storm to blow it all apart.
It makes me want to place all of the pieces back in the box; put the box on the shelf.
But never for long.
He sits down beside me; puts his hand on my thigh; shows me how to do the edges first and helps me fill in the parts where I’m stuck.
Tells me I don’t have to finish it all in one night anyway.