It is nothing,
Or at least, nothing of any value.
He takes it and places it on the wheel,
It begins turning,
Slowly at first, and then faster and faster
Until it is almost unmanageable.
Pieces are being thrown all about,
Covering his face and his hands and his clothes.
He wipes his brow, he presses on.
Out of nothing, something is forming.
It grows taller and taller,
More beautiful with each passing moment.
He purposefully sets it into unimaginable heat,
Not only once, but twice.
I am steady and firm,
But then he does the unthinkable—
He smashes it on the ground.
My being is shattered,
Leaving me fractions of who I was.
It is no longer the standard of perfection
That only seconds ago it had embodied.
I think about letting go,
Of forgetting this brief and hurtful existence.
It is senseless, this chaos, this anger,
This confusion and pain.
He gets down on his hands and knees
And begins to pick up the pieces,
To clean up the mess.
But instead of throwing it away,
He begins piecing it back together,
Not one part forgotten.
I am glued back together,
Once again whole.
And in this pieced-together state,
I find that perfection is not what I once thought it was.
I am not perfect,
But I have been perfected.
– image credit: Elizabeth Ramos