Jigsaw

The card table stands in the

center of her room, puzzle pieces scattered over

like pebbles thrown at the sand.

The border is finished, the edges are

holding together, but big holes

gape, mocking her.

Grandma turned ninety-six last month.

The winter’s snows are lovely to her. But

in her eyes and in the words she doesn’t say

I sense the puzzlement

of too long a season

in one place.

She sits as though crippled,

staring at the mystery

beyond the jigsaw.

Once she put two pieces together

but she could not believe

they fit. I hear her saying

nothing fits anymore.

This body is too small.

The shadows are long and dark

and she wants only to

sleep in the bed

Jesus has made for her.

My heart is full of questions.

I wish she could tell me answers.

But I hold my tongue and

wish I could hold her hand.

Then I slip another piece in place

for Grandma.