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When people are born, they are children. Children like to play with any toy they can find, but one always seems to catch their eye and become more important and more fun. When I was a child, I liked puzzles. Jigsaw, crosswords, 500 piece puzzles were the only thing that kept my attention. They also kept me isolated, kids don't really like to do puzzles, much less watch others do puzzles. Puzzles are mysterious, enchanting, complex.
So are people. Maybe that's why I liked him so much. After puzzles, people-watching was my next hobby. My memory pictured his face so clearly. His face was a puzzle. His hair smashed down slightly, constantly covered by a hat, his forehead slightly wrinkled from thought and worry. His mouth, lips curled up slightly, always on the brink of a smile. His eyes were the hardest puzzle I had ever encountered. They were deep brown, etched with love, compassion, and humor; tinged with green, a hidden sadness.
Needless to say, he was my favorite thing to watch. I did not truly know him, casual conversations at church or online. I longed to talk to him, to discuss life and love and everything in between. We weren't entangled in each other's lives until after the incident happened. Until after my ability to look at him had been stripped away. Until after my blindness.
I don't blame him, the boy that has become my best friend since the accident, the boy I never thought would actually talk to me, the boy who I thought never really cared about me.
Grocery stores seemed to be a bad place for me. Ironically, I worked at one, spending my time pushing in carts for hours on sunny afternoons. My mother and I always seemed to get separated when I was little, a thought that haunted me whenever we went.
9:53. My shift was almost over; I was heading out to pick up my last load of carts, filled with exhaustion and happiness. Screeching tires, flashing lights, and a scream echoed throughout the night. He had hit me from behind-the boy I secretly admired-smacking my head against the pavement and disrupting my nerves, hence the blindness.
His guiltiness, I could hear it in his voice and was sure that, could I see, green tinges would be pronounced in his eyes and wrinkles upon his forehead.
'I'll never leave, I'm promise. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me, God. Please forgive me, Becca,' he had laid his head on my hospital bed and sobbed into my arms as I attempted to console this broken guy, broken by guilt and self-hate.
We comforted each other, and as our friendship grew stronger, so did my feelings for him.
He did not understand how I felt at first.
'How can you love me, when it is my fault you are like this?!' He screamed in frustration, tears filling his eyes.
I couldn't answer, I knew there was no way to describe his influence, the way he loved everyone, the way he cared for people and shone with God's love.
He says that when he looked into my eyes, he could feel what they were trying to say, that I truly accepted his apology.
Now I stand here, feeling this love wrap around me, from God and from him. The love of my life. He clasps my hands as we say those words that tie us together, that finalize and complete our love. This is not the end of our journey, but as we run, we both realize that each of our puzzles had found one of the missing pieces. We are that much close to being whole.