Still Picking Up the Pieces

February 15, 2014

One of my earliest memories

is working on puzzles with my dad.

He’d always tell me exactly what to do,

to start with the corners

and find all the edges,

but I never actually listened.

I was too young and too eager

absorbed by the promise

of a picture I couldn’t quite yet see.

Instead I’d just crush the delicate limbs

of his precious puzzle pieces

and peel up the edges

of the finely printed paper

trying to make two incompatible pieces fit

perfectly.

Until frustration made my face shine

against the old, yellow lights

suspended in air

over the square, laminated table

and my daddy would scoop me into his arms

kiss away my tears

his stubble tickling my cheekbones tender.

Then one by one

he’d pick up all the ragged, ugly pieces

and somehow make them fit

each piece right where it belongs

a magnificent picture made just for me.

Looking back on it,

not much seems to have changed.

Something wrong with this poem?

Replies are closed for this poem.

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.