There are in life a few moments that explode with the scent of memory as you jostle them in the attic where such things line the dusty aisles:
The first time you fumble your way into love. Your first day in the kitchen making tea. The first intense glimpse of order and purpose in the haphazard happenings of a string of days. The first time you notice the galaxy filled sky far from the haze of nightlights while lying on your terrace.
This is the first instant of sun over mountains after the endless minutes of predawn chill. This is the thrill of firsts.
Things never stay the same. The light shifts and whitens. At first it's just as exciting, as it scrolls through all the colors of evaporated gold. Still holy - still magic, yet very different from those firsts.
I've tried to live these moments in repeat, but it never works. You can climb the same mountain, but it doesn't look the same. The light changes. Hides.
Honestly - it's often a letdown to watch the light work its way back to ordinary. It takes a lot more work to see the glory of the mountain when the light pulls back out of your reach.
This is my dream: we don't have to live for firsts. I dream that somewhere again I can find a sunrise that goes beyond anything we've heard whispers of in the annals of beauty.
