mutable person
There are pieces scattered about the building. I am reminded of New Year’s Day and the jigsaw puzzle. Before it is even opened, the box is passed around, examined and considered. Family members ponder its potential for completion against the inevitable movement of time. I stare at each one, watching how they examine and determine, making judgements, passing nods of approval or exasperated sighs of dissent. They could very well be in the produce section, musing over a canteloupe. Turn, twist, shake, smell.
Once the decision is made, the puzzle is moved over to the dining room table, previously cleared, table pads securely in place. The most eager of those gathered removes the box top and pours the pieces across the table. Pressed cardboard, with laminate surfacing, with untreated undersides, jostle for position across the sheen of the table pad. The sound produced has no counterpart. Except for one day in September when pieces are strewn about the halls and twenty or so arrive at room 218.
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