"Practice makes perfect.

And in this family, we expect nothing less than perfect."

My father drilled those words in my head

before I even knew what they meant.

Every football practice.

Despite the blazing heat of September in the south.

Despite the buckets of sweat I could put out a fire with.

Despite the sun, scorching my skin.

I reach for perfect, as if it is something tangible.

With each pass I make, watching

as the ball soars into the hands

of the intended receiver,

I question myself, as my father would do.

"You can throw harder," he says.

With each step I take, digging

my toes deeper into the turf

that has left burns on my skin,

I question myself, as my father would do.

"You can run faster," he says.

With each shooting glance, scrutinizing

every receiver as they run their lines,

deciding which throw is most divine,

I question myself, as my father would do.

"You can play smarter," he says.

Throw harder.

Run faster.

Play smarter.

Rewind. Pause. Repeat.

A continuous replay in my head,

of everything he said,

lacing my footsteps with lead,

filling me with dread.

But there are those moments

when my head clears of the suffocating fog,

when the self-assessment,

self-reflection,

self-humiliation,

take a backseat

and a new passenger enters my car

before I drive off the bridge.

The girl with the purple hair,

and the name of a state

that is known for the first gasoline pump.

The hues of each strand as

they shine in the sun

reminds me of the orchids

that grew in front of my grandma's house.

Seeing those orchids always filled me with warmth

and Indiana,

the girl with the purple hair,

reminds me that my gas tank is running on E.

When was the last time I felt that warmth?