PERFECT

WHAT WAS THAT? A perfect moment? Where did it come from, and why doesn’t it stay? Was it saying, “Perfection is possible, but that’s all you get until you know it better?” All of a sudden, like that. And if it had a voice, it would have said, “Nothing  serious. I’m just saying hello. Got to go now.”

Had those, have you? The briefest of moments? Absolute serenity. How about a string of them? No. Doesn’t work like that. It is what it is. But it knew exactly what it was doing, to pass on a message that it wouldn’t repeat, if you hadn’t had the proper humanity to appreciate it or speak it’s language. It had to be yours. Had to be. These are your insides. The party is yours. The candles, the guest- list, you. However skimpy, short-lived, in it’s patience. As if you were invited by accident. It’s happened that way on every other occasion. But normally it’s a flash of beauty, settling quickly, aspiring, promising to stay if you are strong enough to receive that exquisite moment before the door is shut to you again . . . or not.

Still there? Seamless, with no hint as to how or when it would slip away again. A moment that had shouldered aside anything even vaguely negative, lasering its way through boring sameness, stronger than the most stubborn ennui; defeating, dissolving stupid fear, as if fear has never been considered. Teasing at times: “Stay. We might as well be friends,” it seems to be saying. “Use me. Walk about inside me, without fear of ever having to step outside ever again or surrender to anyone. Think me! Inflate me, till this tiny perfection becomes your norm, and you its Landlord. Indulge it . . . dispense it if you want . . . generously now—kindly now—while it remains, determinedly, yours. Never had that? Sorry. Oh, you have. You waited there. I know. It doesn’t hang about.