The Missing Piece

Shel Silverstein wrote a book called The Missing Piece. I own this book. It's somewhere in the spare room in one of the many boxes of books that I have yet to unpack since moving to Cleveland in December. As with most of his stories, it's really quite simple, an easy read, yet those of us who have matured over the years, and still remain loyal fans are able to dig deeper into the stories, unveiling their hidden meanings.

The Missing Piece tells the story of a cheesewheel-type creature who is missing a wedge out of his side. Throughout the book he rolls here and there looking for this missing piece.

This evening as I sit on the couch alone I'm overwhelmed with the sensation that something is missing, but this type of "missing" isn't like that feeling you get when you're packing your suitcase for a long trip and somehow have convinced yourself that you forgot something important like your deodorant or toothbrush. It's far more important than a toothbrush.

Then I realize what it is. I'm alone. His smell lingers on my skin, but he's not here. And that piercing gaze, from the bluest eyes, is missing from this room. The person everybody thought was my polar opposite, the person everybody thought couldn't make me happy, turned out to be my missing piece.

He fills that hole in my heart. Yet when I leave his presence a part of me stays with him till I see him again, and then all is right with the world, my world.