You always hated perfection. You'd say that everything has flaws and that makes it what it is, makes you who you are. Me, on the other hand, well I'm a perfectionist. Whenever you came over, you'd pull a few books off the shelves, move something so it wasn't centred. You'd leave a mark saying you were here behind, every where you went and it drove me crazy. You'd leave and I would walk into my room, annoyed, taking my time to put things back where it was. But in the end I would smile and shake my head.
On Tuesday evenings you'd play your favourite piece on your old record player that you loved, that was just enough off centre it made me insane, and you'd laugh and sip your tea because you knew. Every detail of you made me angry, because I couldn't understand why? Why you did these things and why it made you so happy. It was frustrating, I know.
Now you're gone, and I find myself pulling out a few books here and there, not centre ing everything and on Tuesday evenings while I sip your tea, I pull out that old record player and listen to your favourite piano piece being played.
And through all of this I think, and I realize that you are the one person I can bear to not completely understand all the time. And even though it frustrated me then, I understand now.
I understand.
