My mother says that my first real word, after the “dada-baba-mama”
pleasantries, was “perfection.” Someone nearby said it, and I grabbed
onto a guiding principle. It might as well have been “methamphetamine,”
for all the promise of lasting contentment that it held. For those of
us crippled by ideals, love is most possible when it’s already
circumscribed by departure, or safely past.
– Dervala Hanley, whose Frappr map says she lives on the equator in the sea south of Ghana