Nobody’s perfect.

He hears that

We’re only human, 

That mistakes are some of the steps on the staircase.

Overlooked metal slices into our feet

And we trip so we can learn to pick ourselves up

And be a little more careful next time.

But he doesn’t listen.                                

He turns and takes the elevator.

The stairs are too crowded,  

He doesn’t need a railing to lean on anymore.

He knows where he wants to go.

The doors open,

And there are no other passengers

Yet. But the music is beautiful.

The glowing dot on the wall is all he gets:

All of a lifelong promise

In a single, smoldering speck of golden space.

He has tunnel vision.

Everything is so straight and so sweet and so simple,

Point A to Point B,

Past to present to future.  

By the time he is a teenager

He is an adult,

Coolly independent

And deeply connected to those around him

All at once.

He masters the art of all at once.

He plays three instruments, three sports,

Says “Hello” and “How can I help you?” at the hospital,

Wearing his volunteer ID with a pride

Unparalleled except by the pleasure of performing in three bands

And keeping his grades up to see his name in the newspaper every quarter

And getting up early for honor society meetings

And leaving late after practices and tutoring sessions and math team competitions,

Rowing in the 3-seat with the same care with which he crafts his AP essays,

Spiking the volleyball with the same intensity that

He loves his family and closest friends.

And a thousand, thousand unwelcome times the human excuse

Crosses his mind that

Nobody’s perfect.

That, somehow, he hasn’t done well enough.

That there is no honor in the sacrifices that he has made.

Nobody’s perfect.

The schedule rolls along

On the shores of some chaotically-harmonious life

That this seventeen-year-old has brought upon himself

And taken in his long, graceful, soccer-player’s stride.

Nobody’s perfect.

And yet he defines this kind of perfection

Not as doing everything, but

As doing everything that he does with

Every ounce of his effort,

Every pound of his passion, and

Every piece of his purpose in this short time we have on Earth.

And as he continues to ascend late into the night,

Scribbling away at that problem set so that

He doesn’t see the day when he has to look into the disappointment

Of his teacher’s eyes,

He knows that it will all connect the dots at some point,

And, true, no one is perfect,

But he is blurring the lines and maybe when he reaches that destination,

He’ll be the exception to this rule of perfection.

Nobody’s perfect.

No,

      No,

            No,

                  No,

No,

But he’s perfect.