Epilogue
Perfection:
The complete and utter embrace of the imperfect.
That’s where the good stuff lives—
in cracked memories and dusty slides,
in unfinished houses and unspoken goodbyes,
in silent walks and soft regrets,
in love that wasn’t always expressed the way we needed—
but was there, stubborn and steady, just the same.
This story isn’t perfect.
Neither was the man.
Neither am I.
And that, it turns out, is what makes it whole.
