The pieces were laid out before her. They had a place. Each of them. She stood back and looked. Anyone else saw wholeness, continuity. They always did. For her, it was clear. Right there. Right there. She moved the pieces. Willing them to take incapable forms. Subtly moving them around and around. They were unaware of how many times they failed her. This piece was as inimitable as any of the others. There was no patching over, or filling in, there was no supplanting or overcoming. It was simply to be missing.

“It was missing a piece and it wasn’t happy.  So, it set off in search of it’s missing piece. – Shel Silverstein, The Missing Piece