There is this puzzle I am working on. I know most of it very well. But the older pieces give me trouble. I remember stories, but they are not the truth.
His mother helped. Ripped apart pieces of the past that he left. So I can sit curled over many pieces of torn letters, drawings or anything else that is to be found. I patch them back up. Tape it all back together.
I have this hunch, that once it is all done, I will have rebuilt his form.
That is grief's lie.