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The Postscript: Perfection

I was lying in bed the other night in the little apartment my husband, Peter, and I rent in Mexico, and thinking that things were perfect. Then I wondered what that meant.

Because, without trying very hard at all, I could come up with things that were far from perfect — in the world, in the neighborhood, even in my body if I really started digging. But it did not prevent me from feeling that — at that moment, lying in bed, listening to the distant cacophony of noises outside my window — things were, in fact, perfect. I thought about my day and decided it had to do with imperfection.

I only not...

 

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