It’s often her eyes trail off
Into the winds, the whirls of time,
It’s often her thoughts wander off
Reading too much into a line.
It’s often her hands waver in the space
Creating words from thin air,
It’s often her back slumps slightly
Inhibitions foregone and free of all scare.
It’s often she lets more than her hair loose
When she roams out on chilly nights,
It’s often she lets her feet dance
As in her sneakers, her toes fight.
It’s often she fills the silence
With her smile, her eyes, her brows,
She seemingly has her own way
Of graciously embracing her chaos
Every defining element in my life has started out as a first. The careful graze of my mother’s thumb on my petite face, while she held me in her arms for the first time, was my first acquaintance with love. That made the first time I opened my eyes, worth the flexing of those eye muscles. My father sweeping the injured me into his arms, shelling me into himself as if to reverse the injury, was my first understanding of protection. That made the falling, scratching, bleeding, tumbling, slipping, worth the pain. A first chance at love, a first failure at it too. A first honest act, a first lie too. A first run towards my goals, a first laze too. A first at bursting with anger, a first at holding it inside too. A first at crying, a first at laughter too. A first on life, a first on firsts too.
So maybe firsts aren’t all bad? That’s not what I am vouching for here. But all bad firsts pave the way for a good first? That, I have conceded to.