Every afternoon, we, Maman, Baba, sis and I sit and have tea and think of what would make our lives ideal. What would entice our irresolute states of nature? What would in fact, make us happy, happier than we are, happier than we are meant to be?
Sometimes we don’t need words to fill our empty conversations. Sometimes our conversations are filled with words and yet still empty. We know we are happy, sitting on the porch on a clear August afternoon with just the right amount of sun, the grass green underneath us, the clouds moving about above us in unison. How do we get a more perfect picture? How do we become happier?
I tell Maman that I would give her the world if I could. And she smiles and puts her arms around me and says I am her world. I want to give Baba his dream: to travel the rest of the world, the parts he hasn’t seen, and revisit his favorites. I want to give sis her dream house in the middle of Georgetown.
In this imperfect world, the closest to perfect is what we have, America and our house on Cedar. And with this, we continue to dream. Who would have thought, that after so many years, we’d still be searching for something ideal.