There are two types of perfection. The prelapsarian model of innocent undifferentiated virtue, and the mature closure of something having served their duty well.
I was pretty obsessed with the prelapsarian model growing up. I always tried to keep things in their most pristine condition. But as I became older, mature closure had aged better.
I was prompted into this cot (chain of thought) because I had noticed, for the first time, that my trusty backpack was beginning to unknot and fray. This decorated soldier counts among its many sojourns the West Canine Teeth (allegedly the hardest hike in Hong Kong), RSI (my first time in Boston & MIT), Croatia (leavers' trip), Red River Gorge (first multi-day outdoor climbing trip), and the Presi Traverse (no explanation needed). It's also the pack I had used for Harvard and all of my day trips since last fall.
The younger version of myself would have been unhappy about this, but I think there is something beautiful in a well-used object. It is soiled, unclean, and fundamentally flawed, but it has lived up to its full essence. Every buckling and wrinkle is a wink at its past. It is perfectly what I'd hoped it might be.
I can't be asked to write more, so I forward-passed@1 in my head to generate a poem. Don't read it unless you're bored.
The well-used tools he'd used slumber in their corner, when time has passed and saw the weathering and thaw of boots and mountain gear.
The packs he'd used to bear have frayed, brittle but brave, and cords he had once drawn— now open and undone— hang frailly in their grave.
But no, tools are perfect especially in death. Round in their own essence, all memories are cleansed of blemishes or fear.