The shapes lie abandoned, splayed out across two tabletops.
Five hundred lonely pieces staring up at me, silently pleading.
But I don’t move, don’t reach, don’t touch. I’ve grown tired.
Tired of trying to make things work, to make things fit, to make things right when they aren’t.
And if I were to match up all the pieces, to find their homes, to fit the haves into the lacks, what then?
The trees will never shed their leaves and the grass will never grow. The snow will never melt from the mountain tops. No one will ever go into the cabin and no one will ever come out. Everything will stay just as it is, the unchanging scene and its unmoving reflection. No movement, no air, no breath, no life.
It would sit there on my table top and stare up at me until I took it all apart again.
Until it became what it was at the start.
Five hundred lonely pieces.