Thursday, November 23, 2017

It was for her a race against the rising tide of panic that came with this,

the present.

The present was not a gift.

It was a bitter stew of every small and large flaw she contained,

every stupid thing she had said, every error, anger, hurt inflicted and given.



To quiet her mind she found a mahjong puzzle,

solitaire, in the shape of a coal tug.

She played again and again for hours, for days, months,

pushed and pulled, towed through and against the panic.



144 pieces, an enigma of placement and chance,
heavy lidded hours
of subtraction strategies,
luck,
patience.

The distance closed down to 12 tiles,
6
and then no moves more,
not ever,
as if the tiles themselves,
dangerously close to extinction,
reroute.

Avoid discovery.

Shuffle underneath.

Refuse to pair.


She couldn't win.


Four years after his death, she admitted defeat.


Unsolvable.


To live with that

to upend the inadequacy, to accept failure

Summoned

to return, however painful, to now.

This is the solitaire that is.

I'm the boat in need,

upstream and cross-current,

pushed forward, tugged,

unpaired,

as one.