What a wonderful feeling it would be not to rush through our story. To pay homage to each fleeting tick-tock of the madness we call life. To wake up in the morning with nothing but a reminder that this day is perfect. It is perfect not because I can do the impossible. But because I can do everything possible to make it perfect.
I can’t find perfection in the monumental happenings. I try to, but it never makes enough sense. Be it scientific breakthroughs or mind-numbing tragedies, nothing adds up.
What makes perfect sense is the way plants in my backyard fill with green blood when spring touches their wintery pulse.
What makes perfect sense is the way my children love me for no reason.
What makes perfect sense is the way my parents can forgive me for all the reasons.
What makes perfect sense is that my wrinkly version doesn’t sound horrifying when I imagine it with my wrinkly husband.
What makes perfect sense is how I can pull off gut-hurting-tear-spurting laughter with no other but my brother.
What makes perfect sense is that I met certain people because they carried an invisible message only I was meant to read.
What makes perfect sense is how blood relations do not always mean we share the same blood; it could mean that we share the same energy and dimension.
What makes perfect sense is how my dreams may not always come true, but that they give me reasons for doing and not just being.
What makes perfect sense is how petty life is when all you think of is yourself. And how magnanimous each breath can be if you tell your heart to just scoot over.
What makes perfect sense for you?