Velvet reminds me of my childhood. Not necessarily from its old smell,  its worn-down look, or even just the thought of it. But when I’m perusing a vintage store and my fingertips graze the fabric of that old velvet dress, I’m transported to a different time — consumed by nostalgia and memories of simpler days

The times when my favorite color was red; not maroon, not scarlet, definitely not “birck” red, but a beautiful, glossy cherry that you see on muscle cars. The kind that was in the movies I watched as a kid, on that big leather sofa. The same kind that would make my dad say “Look, buddy! That’s badass, huh?”. When summer heat wasn’t terrifying or uncomfortable, but instead playful: rainbows shooting out of the sprinkler systems I rushed through, hushed breathes during hide and seek, and picking limes off of trees for no reason at all. Summers tasted like piña colada raspados, infused with the slightest hint of sweat. The dress, or rather the velvet, shifts time in my mind. No longer am I a mindless eighteen year-old. Instead, I’m just a kid who thinks he knows everything — though, if I’m being honest, those two are probably one in the same. 

I can see the kid who knows that tigers and lions living on far-away continents, the one who chased butterflies in the park, always just trudging along, periodically fixing his foggy glasses and patting down his shirt. He never cared about what other people did, only wanting to read his books in peace with his mom’s radio playing in the back. In all honesty, sometimes I think I knew myself more back then than I do now. 

But the longer my fingers retrace the forbidden fabric, the more the nostalgia turns bitter. Like a rotting fruit, my mind’s hope deteriorates; memories of always being backseat to any situation, doubting myself and the people I thought I would never have to question. Watching my own heroes fall right before my glossy eyes. Unsaid goodbyes and uncertain relationships, almost always either infested or infused with childish confusion. 

Holes, pits, trenches so deep, not even God could dig me out of them. Maybe, though, the clouds in my mind get too dark for even me to see the hand reaching out. My indecisive nature: trouble choosing from this or that, what I should want versus what I know I need. I try to sneak through the easy paths when the only real option is to trudge through the thick of it. 

But before I can dive deeper into the endless chaos, I see a glimmer in the corner of my eye. Gone is the past. With a closer look, I can see two little green gems engraved in a golden ring, almost like brothers. The perfect ring right in front of me, something I never thought I needed until now. But before I can even check the pricetag, I’m gutted by the fact that this ring is not for me. Not yet at least. The ring is a prize, meant for someone who knows who they are. Knows what they want, where they want to be, and who they want to be with. Someone who knows the horns of life, but still challenges the bull anyways. The person who will own this ring knows how to handle life in the past, present, and future.

Maybe I’m not there yet, but the day will come.

When velvet will just be velvet, golden rings will remain golden, and I will be me, whoever that turns out to be.