The Random House publishers in their Hampton’s towers,
The Rodgers & Hammersteins sitting in the back of the theater,
The Carole Kings at piano,
The Sinatras on stage.
Those brilliant brains were so close, but
one of those greats got it wrong.
I’m talking “when male sees fe-male but get hits by mail-truck” kind of thing.**
It’s all wrong.
Loving at First Sight is not about the kind of heart palps that so easily bend and stretch and cease only to begin again. That isn’t why this cliche exists, to be bent and ended and bent some more–over the telly, over text messages, No Doubt.
No, Loving at First Sight regards a momma covered in a fine layer of sweat from the toils of labor. It’s the moment when that momma–bra-less, mascara running free, every bit of her turned to water–lifts up her arms to hold her own skin formed into this perfect little person. Both of them now dampened but oh-so bright from their efforts to finally meet one another. And when the babe shhh’s his cries to a coo, matching his mommabird’s vocals, he opens his eyes for the first time to see her, and her him. Like water, they fold into one another’s bodies. Easy.
And that’s it.
Me, Loving First Sight.
Nothing will compare to this, my whole life lived over and over and over some more.
**insert montage of the duo, linked hands holding homemade dips of honey-lavender ice cream, focusing in on their mouths, slightly parted to emit laughter, which transports them to next frame. Ice cream replaced with moving boxes, her hair a little different from before, and whiskers play about his chin. Both drop boxes so he can properly carry her through the threshold. She rings doorbell, all smiles. Sound of bell transitions to wedding bells, their big day, hair swooped up. Just fancy. Zoom into white lace about her torso, which becomes white lace surrounding all edges of baby’s crib. They expect so much in their little faces, and the montage ends.