At First Sight

It strikes me all at once—the immense, sizable beauty of it. I take in a sudden breath, and I wonder if a day will come when, having walked by this exact place, day after day, I forget the mounting of what has captured my attention so completely. 

What do I soak in first? The sound of the leaves, beginning to drift onto the neatly trimmed grass? The waves of students under the gentle August sun shining its warm touch down on sleeping backs? I choose to focus on the mass of it all—the feeling that something so intangible can come together so seamlessly.

The doting breeze that tickles my cheek, the friends along both sides of me, the delighted skip of my Doc Martens on the pavement lead me to laugh fully. The simplistic feel of nature, resting alongside the trees, makes so many people feel so small, quiet, and inexplicably trivial. The beauty of taking a step back, absorbing the sight of others, allows me to breathe easier as more and more firsts are blooming here on campus. 

At First Taste

The first sip of coffee, for once, isn’t bitter, but instead almost sweet, tantalizing, touching the edges of my mouth. I’m sitting in a local coffee shop, one leg lazily crossed over the other. Here, I’m balancing the hope of being productive after a restful night in or trying to block out the reminders of flashing lights, bitter drinks, and the feeling of unfamiliar hands around my waist. No matter what happened the night before, the first sip signifies the parting of a new day from an old.

When did coffee begin to taste so delicate, no longer so strong or demanding? It no longer feels like an urge to consume more for the physical, but rather the emotional appeal of it. I guess that’s what happens when you’re finally left to grow on your own—without the rustling of a mother’s footsteps to your room every morning, her gently opening the blinds to let the sun spill in, or the first waft of toasted blueberry waffles waiting for you. 

Now, it’s time for the coffee to act as a new caregiver—comforting and awakening us to recognize what is presently in front of us. Even as I continue to take sip after sip of the euphoric balance between the sweet creamer and hot inescapable coffee, the utility does not diminish but instead enhances what is around me.

At First Touch

The caress of those fingers, dangerously cautious yet curious, lead me to believe that I am undeniably desired. How many moments follow the feeling of first love—that subtle mix of fear and pounding rush to experience everything all at once? Lying there, under the moon and stars of my room and the darkness of my backyard, the existence of two people, I begin to question all the good deeds I’ve done to deserve something so special. The smell of them, toasted and woody, yet citrusy and minty, is so kind and familiar to the back of my mind, leading me to reach for the moments that I first experienced the same sensations. 

I close my eyes and, for once, my imagination does not trick me but instead exceeds the moments I have curated in my mind. The restless sensation and giggles that escape my voice, our entangled limbs, our fingers mapped together to create the perfect amount of overlap makes me look up, and then over at you. As I fall asleep, faintly recalling the sound of our synced breaths, do I prompt myself to remember this moment as my first love? I tell myself to never forget the way that your hands feel on my own, the feel of your soft hair against my neck, and finally, the gentle, slow fall of your head against mine, as you fall fast asleep this late night. 

At First Smell

It’s a Sunday, the festivities and excitement of Friday and Saturday night falling down to a quiet murmur. I worship this time of day, the looming silence that exists before everyone else starts their day. This is the morning I treasure more than anything because with all the energy brimming around me, only now am I able to appreciate the first scents of the day alone. Stepping out from my dorm, the sun is barely shining through the clouds. It’s better in winter, when I’m awake even before the sun. 

On my walk to the gym, I know the sun will move alongside me. The smell of the cold morning air hits me at last, nestling nicely within. The wishful, almost nostalgic scent of morning dew is rewarding; it lasts only until a certain time in the morning, and I, one of the few lucky ones, am here with it. 

I smell the beginnings of breakfast brewing, the initial waft of fresh bagels being toasted within the depths of the dining hall. I pass the dorms opposite my own, the clean scent of lavender laundry detergent reaching me. I walk through, taking note of every detail I might have missed rushing to class. From the sudden plainness of the Main Green to the other lost smells of campus, I am awed not by the physical smell, but the scent of rest all at once. 

As I continue to observe the things that I once witnessed for the first time, I remind myself of the many things I must not take for granted. I think back to the feelings I felt so fully once: the smells that drifted to my nose, the knots in my stomach I experienced holding hands for the first time, the many tastes I will continue to experience, year by year, week by week, day by day in this life I live.