One piece at a time

By Michelle Tweed of Dalton

I tip the box and the pieces pour out. Colors and patterns emerge as I flip each one face up and lay it back on the table. The maker of the puzzle hasn’t included a picture of what the end result will look like. All I can do is start.

Attempting to make sense of a thousand pieces, I begin to match all the straight edges until a frame is assembled. A glimmer of possibilities lies before me and gives me something to build upon. Now, what next?

I pick a color and start gathering all the shapes with any hint of this shade. Turning them this way and that, I find how they all fit together. A window with a mountain view is revealed. I take a moment to enjoy my accomplishment before continuing on.

There are so many pieces—so many colors and patterns, it’s overwhelming. I repeat the previous step several times until I have islands of images. A pair of shoes. A lady’s handbag. An old photograph of a young couple. A tiny Eiffel Tower. How do these fit together?

The satisfaction of the final puzzle piece. Stock photo

I begin to examine the assembled pictures. At the edges are glimpses of something different. Something new blended with the old. I pick one of these new patterns and set out, searching for a match.

Soon I discover the Eiffel Tower connects with the old photograph, which then connects to what seems to be a lantern. This continues, and one section leads to another until several parts come together to reveal more of the whole image.

But there are still lots of blank spaces ready to be filled. A piece I hadn’t noticed catches my eye and I pick it up. I try it here and there and nothing works. It doesn’t seem to fit anywhere.

I continue building but that piece keeps grabbing my attention, and I often find myself holding it. Searching for where it may fit. Then putting it down again with uncertainty.

Who made this puzzle? Did they make a mistake? Did they add a piece that doesn’t belong? Does it belong to a different puzzle and somehow found its way into this box by accident?

I move onto a different section. It’s becoming more difficult now. So many pieces look the same. A lot of them are dark, with little visible color. Part of me wants to give up—to just be done. But there are still beautiful pieces left. I decide to keep going. To keep searching. To keep making progress no matter how slow.

Becoming more discerning of the subtle hue variations and pattern differences I’m able to fill in more of the empty spaces. Red curtains rest beside a door left slightly open. Much more to be revealed but the scene is starting to come together.

Still that piece sits off to the side—all but forgotten. Where does it go? It doesn’t seem to fit. But it has to, doesn’t it? I pick it up again and carefully study the design. It resembles a veil with shimmers of color, and what looks to be a sort of shine in the middle.

I try one more time. Searching the puzzle for where it belongs. Where does this fit? And then I see it! How could I take so long to find it? I place the piece where it belongs. It’s a perfect fit and now seems so obvious.

It completes the top of the lantern revealing what was there all along. It’s a reflection of an unseen light in the room shining on it. Unseen, but undoubtedly there. Not a veil, but light washing over the glass and reflecting out into the room.

Joy wells up from within. I continue on, filling in every space. Things seem clearer now. Dark sections give way to light. Remaining pieces compliment old images. Everything begins to fit together.

Sooner than I anticipate, I’m at the end and I place the final piece. It’s all here. There’s nothing extra. Nothing that didn’t fit. Nothing wasted and nothing out of place. Finally, I gaze in wonder at the beautiful image before me.