Missing pieces
If I did jigsaws, I would be one of those people who go crazy if one piece happens to be missing.
My grandmother always claimed that ‘real intellectuals play games. Board games. Chess. They do jigsaws, too.’
I guess I wasn’t planning on being an intellectual, then.
She was only trying to bully me into playing Scrabble on Sunday afternoons. One, two, three games of Scrabble, on the dining room table. She’d smooth over a tablecloth first, so as to not damage the polished wood. Then she’d combine two sets, to make the game more satisfying. Longer. My mother would oblige, out of guilt; I ‘d bring them tea and biscuits, and quickly sneak out if I could. After each game, frustrated with each other and their performance, they’d swear they’d never play again.
Painfully long Sunday afternoons. I preferred doing my homework. I invented extra work if that was the only way on that particular Sunday.
Then my grandmother died and the Scrabble boxes – we had three – fell asleep at the back of the cupboard. I suspect my mother is mostly relieved.

I had a girlfriend who loved jigsaws. When completed, she glued them onto huge pieces of cardboard and, proudly, put them up on the wall. The largest, the most intricate ones she could get – they were like trophies, monuments to her patience and dedication. She said she liked the art. When asked to admire them, I nodded silently, secretly despising the whole process as much as the bad artwork reproductions. I must have changed the conversation to something else, feeling bad for experiencing such contempt. I never envied her the sense of achievement she must have gained from them.

I do mental jigsaws. I’ve been trying to fit together the pieces of recurring dreams I have. Some are starting to fit; others make no sense yet. They come thick and fast, always the same themes, why now? Dreams: a safe place to handle unsafe feelings.
More than ever I am living in my head. No wonder I’m already tired in the morning.