Perfectly Imperfect

I miss the days of my youth. Every sunrise welcomed me into minutes and hours to unleash unbridled strength and energy as I roamed the 80 acres of our dairy farm in Northern Indiana.

I miss the suspense of crawling between scratchy bales of hay, stopping to listen for the sound of meowing newborn kittens.

I miss watching my black and white English Shepherd dog, Dick, race toward me. As the distance between us grew smaller and smaller, the unconditional love I saw became bigger and bigger.

I miss the sound of my dad’s voice in early morning, calling the cows to come from the back pasture to the barn for milking. “Co-Boss. Co-Boss. Co-Boss”

I miss the feel of the gentle tug of the soft-bristled brush when my mom helped me untangle my unruly hair. I miss hearing her say, “There. It’s all better now.”

I miss the times when I was able to hug my children’s tears into laughter when they were troubled. I miss the many times they came running into the house with a “Mom, come and see what we found; look at what we did; guess what we’re going to do.”

I miss being able to cuddle them and hold them close to me.

I miss the chances I had to be a better mom. I want those chances back. I know I would have done better.

I miss holding my breath at a high school sock hop, wondering, “Is he going to ask ME to dance?” as I stood with the girls by the wall, watching a boy walk toward us. I needn’t have wondered. He didn’t. He asked my girlfriend. So, I started breathing again.

This list could go on for forever. And I suppose it’s OK to give oneself time to reflect back and relive the “missed” things. Spending time ponying up the things I “miss” makes me aware of the challenges I met head-on, with fearlessness and confidence.

After all, my life today is the sum total of the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years and decades I have been breathing the air that surrounds me.

When I put it all together, I can honestly tell you who and what I am.

I am one of the most perfectly, imperfect people who ever walked this earth.

© Margaret Cook Jan 3, 2020