Pieces of Me

I need to put this puzzle together. I need to find where each piece fits, where every bit of cardboard can be fitted together. I need to do this. Or at least I want to.

Each little shape means nothing to me. They are small and insignificant. Sprawled out on the tan rug, you may not even know they belong to each other.

I don’t know where this puzzle came from. I found it in the back of my closet; the flimsy cardboard box covered with dust and smelling of mothballs. But the pieces are as bright and colorful as they were years ago.

Yes, I need to put this puzzle together.

I don’t know why it means so much to me. I let it sift through my fingers, falling back onto the floor. They scatter around the room, but I make no move to pick them up. Some of them have turned to show their backs, a few are bent out of shape.

I look out the window, letting my thoughts drift. It’s snowing; the cold wind blows the trees, but the sun still shines brightly.

I need to put this puzzle together. Because these are pieces of me.

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