Drabble: Puzzle Piece

She half sang, half murmured the beginning of a poem she’d written when she was fifteen – a song of being missing a puzzle piece, or of being a piece for the wrong puzzle. It was a simple cadence with a soft lilt, bearing with it another thirty years of experience and new insight.

A pint glass sat before her, symbol of this foreign land now more familiar than her native stars and stripes. She’d seen such things, both painful and joyous, and yet right in this moment she still wasn’t sure if she was the puzzle or the piece.

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