I used to deliver Meals on Wheels to someone whom I privately nicknamed The Puzzle Lady. She lived in a little house all by herself and each time I stopped by, she was sitting at the kitchen table working on a puzzle. I wondered sometimes if I was the only person she saw that day, the only human being to cross her path. I admit that I began to weave a story for her that gave her a solitary existence in which the only source of interest was a puzzle. I had her sad life all mapped out in my imagination based on a sixty-second interaction twice a month. Who knows? Maybe she was like the grandmother in Hoodwinked who participated in extreme sports on the sly. Maybe that puzzle was just a front for an incredibly complex and fascinating life. Maybe. But her facial expression lacked vitality and spoke of tiredness, loneliness and resignation. I am ashamed to say that I never tried to find out what her story was; I always had another meal to deliver and a schedule to follow. How many stories do we miss because we're tied to the clock? What would she have told me if I'd offered to stay and help her with her puzzle?
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