There was no way I would ever drop my box of puzzle pieces. They were much too precious. Most of them were hand-carved, a few were given, and the rest had been found. Some were incompatible. Others were interdependent. It was really that box; the box was unique.

I had hand fashioned it out of a thick wood with my penknife. It was well designed. It had a certain quality, the kind that's hard to duplicate these days (I guess people really don't need them with the 90's "spirit of openness"). The box itself was black. There were ornate, intricate inscriptions on the box--story pictures and hieroglyphics, a craftsman's pride. Seems as if it were almost an obsessive work of art.

Most people didn't even have a box. A majority of people either carried their pieces in their hand, pretending to have a picture(--something of a Picasso). Some used a paper bag. And of the few boxes in existence, mine was the only one known to have a lock. To further prevent entry, fake keyholes had also been carved. It was sealed, as entry-proof as it would get.

And I was proud of my box, yet I didn't keep it put away. Rather, I carried it in a casual manner, slung over my shoulder with the weight causing a strain on my back. I became so proud of my box I forgot the important contents inside the black.

Soon they surged, creating an immense pressure within the box. I didn't open the box to let them out, for my box had been crafted too finely to be empty. That is, until the day She came and tickled me and, then, I dropped it.

I dropped the box to see it land on the romantic catch (#22). It broke, spilling color all over. I stood in shock, but she simply smiled victoriously and began picking up the puzzle pieces and mixing them with her own.

And, today, if you look on the northern wall of our large living room, you'll find quite a fascinating picture hanging there. Close inspection reveals that it is constructed of puzzle pieces. And it is framed with black remnants of hand-carved wood.