"The Puzzle Piece"

            The puzzle pieces, dumped unceremoniously upon the dining room table, hide a magic surprise. I pick carefully through the pile, categorizing pieces by color, sliding edges to the side. Puzzles require thinking inside the box, so establishing borders comes first. Straight lines and matching designs group and regroup until I form pairs and short chains. Once the boundaries hold firm, the real work begins. My hands dance through the choreography: pick up, turn, twist, match, fit. Again and again until out of chaos emerges the picture. Gestalt.
          Then disassembly begins. Tearing down the whole back into the individual bits, I bend and separate until chaos piles again on the tabletop. Haphazardly, I swipe everything back into the box, not noticing a lone piece hiding under the edge of a book. Now the puzzle, unknown to me, loses its wholeness. The lone piece longs for reunification. When I pull another puzzle out of its box and spill it across the table, the hidden part slips into the mound, trying to belong where it no longer fits.
            The piece carries similar colors and shapes to this new picture. I don’t notice the subtle differences each time I try to find a place for it. I pick it up, scrutinizing it meticulously as I try to find a mate. Near matches frustrate me as I try to force the bit into belonging. I even resort to pounding it with my fist before casting it aside. I pick up my rhythm once the piece sits in isolation, an outcast within the group. Eventually, the picture sits in completeness upon my table. My eyes draw over to the castaway that caused me so much irritation, and in shame I realize my mistake. Picking up the stray piece, I recall the picture of the last puzzle I’d assembled. I go directly to my shelved boxes, pluck open the correct box, and return the piece to its home.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Puzzle Piece"

 

            The puzzle pieces, dumped unceremoniously upon the dining room table, hide a magic surprise. I pick carefully through the pile, categorizing pieces by color, sliding edges to the side. Puzzles require thinking inside the box, so establishing borders comes first. Straight lines and matching designs group and regroup until I form pairs and short chains. Once the boundaries hold firm, the real work begins. My hands dance through the choreography: pick up, turn, twist, match, fit. Again and again until out of chaos emerges the picture. Gestalt.
          Then disassembly begins. Tearing down the whole back into the individual bits, I bend and separate until chaos piles again on the tabletop. Haphazardly, I swipe everything back into the box, not noticing a lone piece hiding under the edge of a book. Now the puzzle, unknown to me, loses its wholeness. The lone piece longs for reunification. When I pull another puzzle out of its box and spill it across the table, the hidden part slips into the mound, trying to belong where it no longer fits.
            The piece carries similar colors and shapes to this new picture. I don’t notice the subtle differences each time I try to find a place for it. I pick it up, scrutinizing it meticulously as I try to find a mate. Near matches frustrate me as I try to force the bit into belonging. I even resort to pounding it with my fist before casting it aside. I pick up my rhythm once the piece sits in isolation, an outcast within the group. Eventually, the picture sits in completeness upon my table. My eyes draw over to the castaway that caused me so much irritation, and in shame I realize my mistake. Picking up the stray piece, I recall the picture of the last puzzle I’d assembled. I go directly to my shelved boxes, pluck open the correct box, and return the piece to its home.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"From Nancy Drew to Stephanie Plum"

             Nothing pleased me more as a child than coming home to find a book-sized box on my twin bed. I always knew that I’d have hours of entertainment from the latest in my Nancy Drew mystery series. My sister hooked me on the young detective by loaning me a copy of The Secret of the Old Clock. By the time I turned seven, my parents decided to join the book club in order to keep up with my demands for the next edition.

            I loved reading the Nancy Drew series for several reasons. Even as a child, I enjoyed to puzzle over things and put together evidence and clues to solve a mystery. My goal with each book? Discover the solution to the crime or mystery before Nancy, of course! I smugly applauded my reasoning every time I put together the pieces of Nancy’s puzzles. Although I liked Nancy quite a bit, I identified more with her best friend, George. I felt George had a little more spunk than Nancy. As I read the books, I never imagined myself at the wheel of the blue roadster. Instead, I sat in the passenger seat, the loyal buddy ready to accompany Nancy on her adventures.

            Thinking back, perhaps Nancy Drew’s perfection put me off as a child. She always wore the perfect outfit, said just the right things, and never bungled nor had a misstep. With her impeccable father and flawless boyfriend, Nancy’s noble determination to help those around her made her an ideal heroine. I, however, needed someone with a little grit.

            As an adult, I still love reading light mysteries. Only now, it’s the latest Janet Evanovich installation that baits me. I hate having to wait for the next adventure of Stephanie Plum. Of course, this character embodies the antithesis of Nancy Drew. That clumsy, gritty, complicated heroine I longed for as a child appeared on the bookshelves in 1994. I identify with Stephanie Plum’s boldness. I love her imperfect family and her bumbling crime solving methodology. Whether she’s pressed against super-hot Morelli, or simmering next to sultry Ranger, Stephanie’s imperfection draws me into her world. As I lose myself into Stephanie’s adventures, I identify with her and not her best friend (which may be fortunate as Lulu’s a humongous, gun toting, ex-ho stuffed into Spandex.)

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman   

"Time"

Mom with her older siblings 1935-1937

 

Time

Puzzle pieces piled upon the table

Moments carefully measured and cut

Respites sandwiched between what is and what won’t become

Not wandering in my mind anymore into tomorrows

I flail helpless against the inevitable

I choke on my burning unshed tears

I grieve the erosion of self

I step away from plans

Now my focus sharpens upon the fallen leaves under my feet

Instead of next Spring’s buds

How cruel, to lose the future

 

January 1, 2011

"A Rubik's Cube"

Life is a Rubik’s Cube   
where we devote our days   
creating solid planes   
white, blue, red, orange   
twisting and turning to simplify   
to green   
mellowing into yellow   

Life is a Rubik’s Cube   
a 3-D puzzle   
where one solution     
temporarily disrupts another   
jumbling events   
we figure     
we calculate   
we design strategy and apply logic   
we manipulate the interconnected pieces   
focused on the goal   

Life is a Rubik’s Cube   
once solved—   
displayed with pride  
until it teases Fate  
who picks up the puzzle   
and scrambles the pieces once again   


Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Puzzle Piece”

            The puzzle pieces, dumped unceremoniously upon the dining room table, hide a magic surprise. I pick carefully through the pile, categorizing pieces by color, sliding edges to the side. Puzzles require thinking inside the box, so establishing borders comes first. Straight lines and matching designs group and regroup until I form pairs and short chains. Once the boundaries hold firm, the real work begins. My hands dance through the choreography: pick up, turn, twist, match, fit. Again and again until out of chaos emerges the picture. Gestalt.

            Then disassembly begins. Tearing down the whole back into the individual bits, I bend and separate until chaos piles again on the tabletop. Haphazardly, I swipe everything back into the box, not noticing a lone piece hiding under the edge of a book. Now the puzzle, unknown to me, loses its wholeness. The lone piece longs for reunification. When I pull another puzzle out of its box and spill it across the table, the hidden part slips into the mound, trying to belong where it no longer fits.

            The piece carries similar colors and shapes to this new picture. I don’t notice the subtle differences each time I try to find a place for it. I pick it up, scrutinizing it meticulously as I try to find a mate. Near matches frustrate me as I try to force the bit into belonging. I even resort to pounding it with my fist before casting it aside. I pick up my rhythm once the piece sits in isolation, an outcast within the group. Eventually, the picture sits in completeness upon my table. My eyes draw over to the castaway that caused me so much irritation, and in shame I realize my mistake. Picking up the stray piece, I recall the picture of the last puzzle I’d assembled. I go directly to my shelved boxes, pluck open the correct box, and return the piece to its home.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman