A Perfect Sphere

 

 

 

 

Sphere by C.K. Without instructions.

 

Being a parent is like
making a perfect sphere;

out of a pile of broken legos.
Sure.

They tell you you can do it.
They tell you there are instructions,
but those are long ago lost;
one page floating in the toilet
another page under the forks in the drawer
another in the basement of your bag
stuck to the bottom with melted chocolate
and to the side with bubble gum
that was tried, but named ‘not my favorite.’

What happens is, the pieces you need aren’t there,                                                   but that’s when you know how to use them;

or the pieces are there,                                                                                                                   but that’s when you can’t make them fit.

In the pictures, the ones they all seem to have,                                                          they tell you:
blue 3×2
grey 1×6
red 4×4

Press here,
click there,

perfect.

So, you try the same,                                                                                                                       but all you have is:
green 2×2
black 8×8
white 1×1

You pound here,
you smack there,                                                                                                                                but not.

And there is it…

A crumbling pyramid.

Not a perfect sphere.

Some people can do it.

They dive their hands in,

and without any hesitation or sweat

or swear words or crying or whiskey,

they do it.

Round. Smooth. Perfect.

You can’t do that.

But you have to do something,

make something.

Try something.

So you do.
With whatever bags of edges and
sides and cracked bumps you have left.
You can’t just leave these blocks
scattered and pointless and deserted.

Maybe if you stack it,
just keep pushing to the center,
every one mounded on the next
as many as you can.

But they still separate and they fall.

You can’t make a perfect sphere.
You’ll never.

But maybe,
maybe,

you can give them,                                                                                                                            the one on the floor next to you,                                                                                           who doesn’t mind the plastic in their knees,
give them the blocks  and a hug and                                                                                                    whatever ideas you have and some courage

and you might
make them
a better builder
than you.

It won’t be a perfect sphere.

Because maybe a perfect crumbling pyramid                                                                     is what they wanted all along.

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