The End of Perfection

As I drove along in the car yesterday,  Lou Reed's "Perfect Day " played on the radio and it occurred to me that for the rest of my life no day can really constitute as a perfect day again.   No family outing can truly hit the blissful heights again with the absence of Freddie Bean.   The closest  thing I have got to perfection since he died was Mother's Day where we all sowed wildflower seeds on his grave.   In the context of loss,  this was a perfect thing to do,  but no day can ever be bathed in absolute brilliance.

It is not necessarily an unhealthy thing to lead a life of lowered expectation.  Suddenly one finds pleasure in moments that would have previously gone unnoticed,  one ekes out the goodness from trivial things.   I watch a robin build a nest in the garden intently,  in a way not done before.   I notice the season of spring enter with such a profound and bittersweet sense; the blossom sweeping in as the snowdrops fade away.    Where previously spring brought me unbridled excitement,  it now brings me a sense of melancholy.  I am further away from the little gasping breaths of my son,  but nearer to a formed relationship with him.   I'm still learning.   One day,  when grief has comfortably found refuge within me,  perhaps I won't feel betrayal at moments of almost complete wonderment.