Perfectly Imperfect

I’m imperfect. My family is imperfect. What I call home is imperfect. It's all imperfect. Why does the mint green paint, brittle and weak chip off the corners of the apartment? It's imperfect. Why does that tree have to stand tall, and weathered right in front of our window? It's imperfect. Why does my dad have to live in a small, crammed apartment uncomfortable, and old, but my mom has all the room desired? It's imperfect. But hold on, the imperfections of me, the scars and bruises my body displays, shows how strong and tough I am! It's perfect. My mom and dad divorced for the best of their lives. It's perfect. The chipping paint, brittle and weak but tough, show all the years this apartment building has been standing! It's perfect. And the tree that was destined to grow in front of our window that is bold and ancient, brings beauty and life to our eyes. It's perfect. The tight space my dad can afford brings my family together, learning how to share our living space and how to share rooms! It's perfect. Perfectly imperfect is the definition of my home and family. Smells are custom to my dad's apartment and mom's house. Smokey incense and cat litter fills the oxygen at my dad's place. While at my moms, sugary sweet candles and clean air freshener products protrude the air. The smells, taste, sight, and all the other senses that define a home as a home are all perfectly imperfect. It's my home.