Love at first sight … what a cliché. I’m not much of an optimist but I always believed in possibilities and everything that comes in between. I wondered if there was love at second sight, third, fourth, fifth, each glance in counting. That’s how it was in the beginning for my parents, always stealing chances for glances.

My mother in her blunt, faded white heels walking down from God’s sanctuary. Her folded personality and Bible tucked neatly under her arm. There could never be a loose end with her, no squiggly line. She was a straight line and a sharp corner.

Then here comes a curve and pop – my dad. Paired with a leather jacket like midnight and a sweaty beer as an accessory. Just like that.

If she was yellow, he was purple. If she was orange, he would be blue. If she was white, he would be black. All colors on the opposite end. If she was the tender rose then he was the selfish weed. If she was the past then he would be the future. Yet, in the end and in love, if she’s a bird, he’s a bird too.

Maybe their meeting was explosive. Maybe there were neon lights and thunder songs involved. I think it should always be that way – obnoxious and golden – whenever a life is tilted dramatically by another.

That was their beginning. I wish it could still be that loud.