A few months ago, mom was sitting on the sofa
in the living room
of my downtown apartment.
We were making light chatter,
trailing off.
I took a lazy slouch
against the kitchen sink counter and
looked away to guzzle
on a bottle of distilled water.

From the corner of my eye, I caught her movement
leaning over that leftover puzzle,
the one I bought but you started.
Pressing a few pieces here
and
a few pieces there.
I felt each one
click softly
into place.
The way they would turn
in our fingers at night
and slide into a comfortable position, sometimes
on the very first try. Sometimes
not quite.
It's a good thing,
one of us kept at it
in spite
of it all.

Looks like a few
pieces are still missing.
Maybe they were never there to begin with, or maybe
we lost some
along the way.
Some are probably stuck to the bottom of my dress shoes
or in that old bookbag you took to the lab
or in the dirt somewhere,
tracked outside
and into the hallway
and into the living room of
someone else's
place.
Maybe gone forever or maybe
they'll turn up later.  Maybe
when the new tenants move in.
They'll call me up on the phone to let me know
what they've found.
Come by and pick 'em up when you get a chance, they'd say.
Thank you, I'd tell them gleefully.
I've got most of the pieces,
but I'll be there as soon as I can.
No rush, they'd insist.
Gimme five minutes, I'd reply.
Keys in the ignition, parking brake released, foot on the gas.
Glancing over my shoulder
to check for blind spots,
some of which don't show up in the mirror,
some of which I was born with,
some of which are closer than they appear.

Not quite finished
but laid out on the coffee table in front of us:
an oil rendering of the whitewashed cubiform expanse of a Santorini clifftop overlooking the sea.
Took my breath away