Puzzled

But every night now, the time arrived to end my day and sit at the dining table, quietly fitting pieces together and talking with my loved ones.

I found the jigsaw puzzle about a year into the renovating-and-moving-in process. It was at the bottom of one of many randomly-packed boxes. I paused in my sorting to look at the picture: a mountain and a lake. We had put this puzzle together many years ago, when my husband was alive and my son was small. Wondering why I had even brought it to the new house, I set it on a shelf and continued to work.

I worked a lot: First at my eight-to-five job, then at home, late into the night. Often I worked on the house or unpacked boxes while talking on the phone; it was a hard time for my family, with illnesses, injuries, and worry. I worked, talked, and fretted until it was far past my time to drop into bed. Of course, I wouldn’t wind down and fall asleep for hours. Then it was time to drag myself off to my job again.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the puzzle. It was a neatly boxed-up reminder of a time when we were a family who took time to be a family. I remembered long rainy evenings, playing games and doing puzzles. It seemed like a dream. I didn’t have time for such things now.

Or did I? Really, how productive was I when I was exhausted and discouraged? Could I fit puzzles into my schedule now? Could I re-find that little piece of my now-distant family life? It seemed pathetic and lonely to build a puzzle all alone, but it might be an indulgence that could fit into a renovator’s routine. And after all, I ate by myself, so I rarely used the dining table. There was plenty of room for a puzzle there. I opened the box. I started to find some edge pieces. I was hooked.

Carpet tiles were installed, room by laborious room. Trim was cleaned, sanded, and sealed. The phone rang every night. It followed me from room to room with the speaker turned up. But every night now, the time arrived to end my day and sit at the dining table, quietly fitting pieces together and talking with my loved ones. The puzzle grew.

The months passed. One project would be wrapped up as several others clamored for my attention. The phone calls came: some with joy, some with sadness. I bought more puzzles. One by one, they came together on my table.

Then COVID happened. Suddenly my predictable eight-to-five became a wild roller coaster. My son’s college closed and his job disappeared, so he came to stay with me in my little reno by the ocean. The program he had put five years of his life into was in peril and he had no income. I showed him my puzzle. I told him about the late nights, the hard work, the long phone calls, and the simplicity and stillness in finding the next right piece. Of course, now we needed the dining table for meals. The puzzle shifted to the tea cart. He joined me in the late evenings, poring over the piles of pieces. We were a family again, doing family things. The puzzle grew.

These days won’t last forever. There is talk of reopening the school. Someday this will all be part of history and life will have moved on. While he has been here, though, we have made tremendous progress on the house and yard. Projects that I thought I wouldn’t get done for years are now finished. We have found great and unexpected joy as two adult friends working together side-by-side.

Soon the time will come when he will go back to the life he has built in the city, and I will stay here by the ocean. I will continue at my eight-to-five and slowly finish up the last of my renovation projects. The evening phone calls will come, brightness and shadow, part of love and friends and family and life. The puzzle will remind me at the ends of each of my days: this will not be finished in an hour, or even a week. You may think you have the big picture, but you can’t really see the shape of things until it all comes together, and that may take longer than you can possibly imagine. The piece that seems like it absolutely must go where you think it ought to will not fit if that is not where it should be, regardless of your opinion. The piece that looks like it doesn’t belong anywhere may well be just what you need later on to make everything fall into place. Give it time. Be patient. Little by little, the puzzle grows.