I have this puzzle. It’s a Red Sox one (shockingly) and I got it for my birthday (not shockingly).

I have this other puzzle. It’s also a Red Sox one. I got it for Christmas. Some–most—would say that they’re the same.

To some—most—the puzzles look identical to each other. They’re both puzzle-replicated versions of the Red Sox playing baseball; both take place during the night, both have the Sox on defense, and both are being played at Fenway Park.

But they are not the same.

One is the Red Sox playing a game at Fenway Park. The other is game six of the 2013 World Series, right when the Red Sox won the game—and, as a result, won the World Series.

One has some random Red Sox players on the field. The other has Jonny Gomes in left field; Mike Napoli at first base; Dustin Pedroia at second; Koji Uehara on the mound; David Ross behind the plate; David Ortiz rushing out of the dugout and onto the field.

One is a puzzle. The other is a memory.

It was cold on October 30th. I wore a jacket that day.

I didn’t wear my usual Red Sox face paint—if you were at AHS two years ago, you’ll fondly remember a girl walking through the halls with red paint under her eyes and red heels on her feet—because I was so nervous that morning I couldn’t stop shaking long enough to put it on.

I somehow made it through the day without collapsing. Ever since the Red Sox had started postseason play nearly a month earlier I’d been a mess. The very first game–Red Sox vs. Rays, at Fenway, Jon Lester on the mound for the Sox, Matt Moore for the Rays–took place during school and I hadn’t been able to watch it because my phone went haywire. I’d spent the rest of the day as such: in the library watching the game on the computers; on my English teacher’s computer, watching the game; in history, using someone else’s phone to watch the game; and, in gym class, when my phone came back to life, playing pickle ball one-handed while I watched the game.

I was a mess. And on what could be the final game of the 2013 season, I was no different.

I watched the game at home that night. Shane Victorino cleared the bases with a hit that had him ending up at third. Stephen Drew hit a home run over the right-field wall. Papi (David Ortiz, to you non-Red Sox fans) drew four walks. He was the World Series MVP. Koji Uehara closed the game out.

And, after long last, I could breathe normally again.

That season was magic. There were things that were improbable—two grand slams in the ALCS, Papi hitting .688 in the World Series–and there were things that just shouldn’t have happened; mainly, the Red Sox winning it all.

They went 69-93 the season prior. They had a coach–and players—who didn’t care. They were a mess.

And then they won 97 games.

And then they beat the Rays in four games.

And then they beat the Tigers in six.

And then they beat the Cardinals in six.

And every time I see that puzzle—the second one, not the first—it all comes rushing back to me.

My point is that perspective is everything.

My point is that the puzzles are not the same.

Not by a long shot.