Imperfections.

Life is perfected by death – Elizabeth Barrett Browning

“My life will never be complete because he died and I can’t see him anymore.”

It is a strange thing that we, the living, do to them, the dead.

We carve immortal memories from what is left of mortal beings. One of humankinds’ greatest gifts is its ability to process emotion, raw and refined. And yet each one of us discovers, as we all must do, that is at the root of our greatest downfalls. Greed begets anger and loneliness and remorse. With great success comes great disappointment. Humor can lead us down hurtful paths, while trust leaves us naked and exposed.

But it is love that cuts the deepest.

In life, he was a man. No more, no less. He was dedicated to his job from start to finish, and dedicated to leaving it at the end of the day when he exited the uniform. Family vacations were shelved in favor of bicycle parts and bicycles, while extra income was shelved for family time. His body cleared rooms, clearing beans off the familial menu in perpetuity. When it came to handiwork, he generated more cost than cost savings. He whistled in his sleep, and hiccupped for days on end to the point of gastrointestinal distress.

In death, imperfections fade.

It isn’t that time heals all wounds. It’s that time covers them gently, pushing pain and anger and character flaws we liked less beneath a soothing balm of softer memories and laughter and the characteristics we liked more. We forget that we didn’t like the cheery voice breaking the morning silence, the clothes piled on the floor, or the way he cleaned the sink. As adults we brush these inconvenient memories aside.

But children don’t manufacture immortality – it exists in their memories. The smells that irritated me are funny memories to them. The cardboard box spaceship that left work for me left them with a lifetime of memories. The temporary tattoos that appeared at inconvenient times are permanently etched and the butterflies that I chose and he hung are his and his alone. For them, he has become the perfect memory, while I am the imperfect reality.

“Sweetheart, your life is already complete. You had the very best of Daddy, and he had the very best of you. And now we can open another door and see what or who comes next.”

“We already know what comes next. Cocoa!”

“Right. … Unless the dog is going to take out the garbage, I’m hoping there’s a “who” around the corner, too.”

“Like Gerard Butler?”