I stare at the row of perfect houses resting on the perfectly manicured lawns beneath a perfectly blue sky by perfectly green trees. I am surrounded by perfection, but I have not been given it.
Sometimes I wonder why I'm doing this.
I bend down to the ground. There is a ball lying there, perfectly out of place. I pick it up. My son could've played with this ball. He would have been good at sports, I'm certain. Slowly I curl my fingers around it, and feel the perfectly creased leather, shiny with memories of sunny afternoons and perfect throws after perfect throws... I lift it, and chuck it high, high, high up. I watch it spiraling in the blue sky. It doesn't seem to want to come down. I suppose it is a perfect moment, but considering my life, I doubt I could create anything durable, anything perfect. Everything I touch shatters.
It comes down like a thunderbolt. The grass bends where it lands, forms a cushion around it.
I turn around. I cannot do it. I'll ruin the beauty. That's all I ever do.
Vaulting over the fence, I look back once, and I am glad that I never lived here.