I am an uneven weave. I have a strange thread count, one that never quite has enough to make a strong blanket, a beautiful throw, or a designer shirt. I have holes that stretch and strain as I am pulled this way and that, forward and backward, twisted to fit the wearer.
But, despite my poor quality, my low level of production, I will do my damnedest to make sure you are covered. That there is something to shroud your skin from the wind and the cold, even if my seams are not straight. I will be the cloth that you don when you need that one last layer to chase away the chill of the day, or be the final comfort to an evening where the fire is our only friend, and the moon, our constant scrutinizing eye.
I cannot be called pretty, but to some, I am beautiful. I cannot be called the best, but to a few, I am first-class. I cannot be called quality, but there are those who praise my dedication and hold me high on the pedestal for all to admire.
I am uneven.
And in that, I am perfect.