The puzzle of life is a beautiful thing.

Sitting next to the Father, I scour the jumbled pile of pieces looking for a connection to make sense of the mess of in front of me.

To me its a thousand, to him its like a child’s twenty-five.

Growing up, I used to think every piece I fit together was because I had searched through the muddle and found the perfect match.

Now that I’m older, I’ve realized that I’m always getting stuck and it isn’t until he pushes one up into the corner of my vision
or until I look at him with pleading eyes longing for help
that I “find” the next piece to fit in.

He’s making sure I finish the outline first, a firm foundation for the picture inside to rest upon.

And most often, when I want to work on the petals, he gives me a piece of the stem or the leaves, all equally good and necessary
but not all equally paid attention to by my fickle eyes.

And slowly but surely, piece by piece,
the puzzle starts to come together.

I’m still along way off, but at least I know its of bluebells and daphne now.

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