George Bilgere

 The summer before my grandmother died I would visit her every afternoon in her stuffy apartment in Santa Cruz. We would work on jigsaw puzzles together. I was terrible at jigsaw puzzles. She was so good that she would flip the puzzle pieces face down, so we had to work with hundreds of gray blobs that all looked pretty much the same. Nonetheless, a waterfall or a forest or a farm took form invisibly on the table, and when Grandma put the last piece in its place there was a tiny flash of victory in the room.