My latest hobby is putting together furniture. Not for fun, of course. Who does that? Right. Old men and carpenters and people who know how to properly charge a drill (with the battery on it, ahem). Tables, credenzas, dressers, you name it, I've needed it assembled in the last week or two. Luckily I've had help from family and friends who are more seasoned and knowledgeable than I at how to make everything fit together, to help lift the heavy stuff and to guide me when I need help figuring out what to do with all the pieces.
There are a lot of pieces.
Frustratingly, I've learned that furniture – brand new furniture – often arrives broken. This isn't what I ordered. Silly me, I expected to get what I paid for; everything intact and in the box, nothing missing, nothing cracked or falling apart and certainly nothing already used. Even on the rare occasion all the pieces arrive in prestine condition, seemingly perfect, you can't look too closely or you will undoubtedly find an imperfection – it's one of furniture's charismatic traits apparently.
I've laid out far too many pieces of wood in various shapes, lengths, widths in front of me, overcome by the smell of veneer and shiny silver screws in a thousand sizes and shapes, cam locks, nuts and bolts that make me cross-eyed and I flashback to almost 20 years ago when as a very young girl I sat at my great grandfather's bedside as he lay dying, telling me how to take a part a washing machine – or anything, really, he said – properly so that you remember how to re-assemble it when you're done fixing it – one piece at a time.
I flip back and forth through the instruction booklet full of pictures and not so many words and furrow my brow. I'm a smart girl but what? Nothing lines up. That picture doesn't make sense. Which screw is that? The big one or the slightly bigger one? Crap.
Cross-legged on the floor an hour later and still on step one of thirty-three, I feel overwhelmed. It's the dresser but it's not. This is just another metaphor for my life right now. Looking at all these pieces – some seemingly broken, some teeny-tiny, some big – it's a daunting thought to see how they'll all come together and ever be whole again; how I can become solid and sturdy, standing on my own feet independently again, not feeling like a million pieces spread amongst the floor.
I, too, have required the help of family and friends who are more seasoned and knowledgeable than I to make everything in my life fit back together; to help lift the heavy stuff and guide me when I can't make sense of all these pieces.
There are a lot of pieces.
One piece at a time. That's what my great grandfather would have said. We – I – came apart one piece at time and that's how I intend to put myself back together… piece by piece. I vividly remember Papu laughing and then choking a little on his oxygen, tugging at the tubes on his face adding, "sometimes there are leftover pieces, but that's ok."
I pick back up the instruction booklet. I can do this. I can put this dresser together. I can put me back together. And I start assembling the pieces. One at a time.
