A perfect day is a quilt of perfect moments

"Sun comes up, the world goes round and round / There's no bad luck, it's just the luck you found"  Lyle Lovett

We are driven through with imperfection. We come into this world burdened by our genes, haunted by the stories of our parents and grandparents, and confronted by the luck we find.

Perfect is momentary and fleeting. It is sandwiched between the corrupt and traumatic. And, its meaning is entirely dependent on the corrupt and traumatic.

I can’t even fantasize about perfection that endures for a day. Instead I imagine a collage of moments, some remembered and some imagined, stitched together. An imperfect quilt of perfect moments.

I am sitting in my grandfather’s big gray chair with my grandmother. We are in our pajamas and it’s very early in the morning. She has a hot cup of coffee, milky and sugary, and she lets me drink some.

My dad lets me drive our beaten up pick-up. We’re in the mountains and I’m 10 or 11. He teaches me to shift the gear stick that rises up from the floor. I make that thing move, if lurching is moving.

I tell a colleague that my comfort food is pimento cheese spread on bread. One day, when it’s been pretty awful at work, I find a jar of Kraft pimento cheese in my mailbox.

My mom comes to me, after her death, to hold my daughter. She stays to see my girl dance and draw. She cries when she sees my daughter trying on her 1950s wedding dress. She finally gets her girly girl.IMG_0585

I wake up one morning and don’t think about cancer for an hour. The time stretches, and I have entire days where I don’t think about cancer.

Some of my Facebook friends and I watch the Presidential debates in 2012 and comment as we watch, several hundred comments. I’ve recently been diagnosed with cancer and for an hour don’t think about it at all.

My husband tries to read the Shakespeare Sonnet he’s chosen for our wedding. He can’t read the words because the book he’s reading from is written in god awful calligraphy. And he’s crying. The best man struggles to read it for him. Most of the guests are mouthing the words because they know it by heart.

I am in Barnes and Noble holding my toddler who has fallen asleep in my arms.

My dog Jinx and I share a jar of peanut butter while watching the Rifleman.

My husband and I play poker with my brother and his partner. As liquids are consumed and the night stretches on, the game devolves into liar’s poker and giggling.

Friends move me into an apartment, where for the first time in seven years I feel safe and happy.

I am lying next to the pool at my friend Jenny’s apartment. Hot New Mexico sun beats down. When it gets too hot, I roll into the pool and swim.

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