In the Eyes of the Beholder

I wanted to be someone

special,

unique,

important.

But how can you be

one

when surrounded by so many others?

You are a puzzle piece,

he told me.

But I looked at all the others.

We were are all the same;

splashes of disorganized color

and curvaceous edges.

Amoebic entities vying

for attention,

for definition,

for importance.

That means nothing,

I scowled.

You are mistaken,

he replied.

Your color scheme:

unique.

Your shape:

special.

Come and look,

he said.

He picked me up

and placed me

on his shoulder.

From there, I watched.

The puzzle pieces

were a cacophony

disaster;

yet he handled them each

with the care

and precision

of a masterful

conductor.

I watched

as each

specific

piece

was put in its place.

Slowly,

the picture began to form;

the harmony to ring.

And then he stopped.

It’s beautiful,

I said.

But—

But, what?

he asked.

There is a spot missing,

over on the side.

He stroked his beard in deep thought.

You are right,

he replied.

The picture is missing something.

Do you know what it is?

he asked.

I stared at the picture,

disheartened by its

incompleteness.

No,

I replied.

I do,

he said.

It’s you.

He picked me up

once more.

And placed me in a spot

my spot

the only spot

in which my colors

would blend

and my shape

would fit.

I could not see the whole

picture from this point of view.

But I could feel,

and I could hear

that it was beautiful

and it was complete.