The Second First Time

Every night is the same—
and yet somehow,
every night is different.

I sit in the same worn corner,
where the floor creaks
just beneath the chair leg.
She rests against me—
soft breath, warm skin,
the hum of the white noise
shielding us from the rest of the world.

It’s only us here now.

And tonight, like so many others,
it happens:

the quiet collapse of time.

Her lashes fall.
She sinks deeper.
And I’m taken back—
no, folded back—
to the very beginning.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and adrenaline.
Her skin was too new for this world.
So was I.
I held her then like I do now—
unsure of everything
except that she was mine.

Eleven months later,
she’s heavier.
Louder.
Fiercer.

But when she sleeps like this,
her weight disappears.
She feels impossibly small again,
like she could slip through time
and become the tiny creature
who once gripped my finger
like it was the only anchor in the universe.

It’s a trick the night plays—
this second first time.

Maybe it’s the rhythm of the rocking.
The hush of the room.
The golden brush of the nightlight on her lashes.
Maybe it’s the way silence
settles into the walls
just long enough
to remind me:
these moments are numbered.

One day she’ll sleep without me.
One day she may not want me
to hold her anymore.

But not tonight.

Tonight,
she’s new again.

And I get to fall in love—
with the same child,
the same softness,
the same breath curled into my chest.

The same miracle.
The same first time.
All over again.

Author’s Note

This piece began as a prose submission for a Vocal challenge I missed the deadline for. I couldn’t let the moment go, though—it captured something too real, too sacred. So I turned it into a poem. This is for the parents still rocking their babies to sleep, knowing each night is a gift that will never come back the same way twice.