I came up one sock short yesterday after doing the laundry. That doesn't happen so often since the kids are all grown and moved out and it's just the hubbie and me, but it used to be a frequent occurrence. Where do those socks go? We've all wondered that. A load of towels is still sitting in the dryer, so it might be there. It might be clinging to an article of clothing with static electricity. If it's a heavy piece of clothing, it might be months before I find it, since the weather has just started to turn warm here in Central Texas. I've sometimes wondered if clothes go over the lip of the inner drum in the washer. I'll never find it if it's there.
Today, on my walk, I spied a lone puzzle piece, and started wondering how it got there. It's been windy lately. Was someone sitting on their back porch, sipping ice tea or wine, or beer, doing a puzzle, and a gust scattered some pieces into the yard, and beyond. Did the puzzle doer jump up and gather all but the one piece that had flown, undetected, out of the yard? Did he or she just shrug and thrown the puzzle away? I can't picture someone carrying puzzled pieces as they walk the Hike and Bike Trail in Taylor, but I suppose one could slip out of a pocket if they did. It's unlikely anyone will ever recover
At the end of my walk I tried to tie my musings together. Life has loose ends. I may or may not ever find my other sock. The puzzler worked will probably never find that missing piece. But, writing fiction is different. Especially mystery writing. There can be not missing pieces. By the end of the plot, all socks must be found, all puzzle pieces located and put into place. After all, that's what makes reading a mystery satisfying. That order that's missing from real life. It's satisfying to be the one who ties up the loose ends, too. However hard that may be sometimes!
puzzles pieces photo by Crazy Phunk at Creative Commons