One (Sarah Crossan)

Picasso

Dragon spreads a thousand jigsaw pieces

across

the kitchen table.

The picture on the box promises that the mess will turn into a

painting by Picasso

—‘Friendship’—

a surreal arrangement of

limbs

and lines,

of solid blocks of

yellow,

brown, and

blue.

‘I like Picasso,’ I say.

‘He paints the essence of things

and not only what the eye can see.’

Tippi huffs. ‘It looks impossible.’

Dragon turns the pieces

face up.

‘The harder the better,’ she tells us.

‘Otherwise, what’s the point?’

Tippi and I plop ourselves next to her

on an

extra-wide dining chair

as

Dad

shuffles

down

from his bedroom

bleary-eyed and smelling stale.

He watches us

rummaging to find the puzzle’s frame

—the edges

and corners—

then reaches over Dragon’s shoulder

and places in her palm

the top right-hand corner piece.

He sits at the table opposite us

and silently slides bits we’ve been looking for

into line.

‘Great teamwork,’ I say,

beaming at Dad.

He looks at me and winks.

‘I learned from the best,’ he says,

and gets up from the table to search in the refrigerator for a

beer.