Christa Irene
Aug 25, 2017 · 2 min read

Missing My Jig Family

Missing My Jig Family

How does this happen?
I lived with all my family and friends
In a roomy box-home
We have been toted around
Usually we do not travel far
With a shake of our box-home
We mingle about
We visit with new shapes
We haven’t seen each other in awhile

It was time to come out to play, we thought
Things happened abruptly
I was quite shaken by the sudden jarring
The chaos lasted far too long
So much screaming from all 412 inner pieces
They can’t take as much stress as us 88 outies

Sometimes when we came out to play
I heard interesting facts from a distant voice
Like an elder trying to teach us new lessons
The voice said an avalanche was cold
Vigorous tumbling, rolling downward
What was snow?
This wasn’t cold it was hot

This was not like falling rocks from a mountain side
I didn’t bang into anything
Nothing hit me
I fell silently and quickly
Landing with a sudden jolt

This is not the flat table
Where we interlock with our friends
The outies, strong pieces arranged neatly first
The innies gathered in piles sorted by colors
Giggling and chatting while they waited
Where are they now?
Are they safe?

Where are the sweet little girls?
The littlest would say
“This beautiful outside piece is the one I will always start with.”
What will she do now?
Is she lost too?
Her chubby warm fingers
Moved us about the table
I don’t hear them clamoring about
Arguing who will piece together the most
Who will insert the last piece
All of us pieces await the joyful cheering
The clapping and oohing and awes
When our masterpiece is complete

My vibrant beautiful colorful topside
Is now dull and boring like my bottomside
All the color is washed away
My center has become concave
My spine must be broken
My friends and family will never recognize me
I will just be another lost puzzle piece

I do not like being out here.
I have been squished.
I have been rolled over.
I have been scorching hot.
I have been drenched.
I have been cold.

I miss my roomy box-home
I miss being interlocked with my true pieces
How will anyone know where I belong anymore?
I have lost my jig.
I am just a blank face.

  • Parking Lot, Waite Park, Minnesota, July 2017

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