At the park one day, I entered a mysterious, lone house that encompassed my mind.

The gothic architecture spread for what looked like miles, increasing in size from when I carelessly entered.

The further I walked in, the earlier the memories became. I could see within the different rooms that made up my head space.

Like a labyrinth of Books.

Los libros de la buena memoria.

The beautiful and the decrepit.

The latter being tightly shut with bundles of ice cold locks and chains, never to be read again.

Never to be relived.

However, there was one room that I struggled to open. Not due to a lock, but due to a lack of foresight. For this door was much different from the rest.

It was a red door, as opposed to the dark walnut i’ve temporarily become accustomed to.

I entered the room and saw a boy. Sitting criss cross towards a static filled TV screen.

A Playstation controller in hand.

A buzzcut from what was once an afro.

Brown skin.

A red polo with khaki shorts.

No shoes. Carefree.

This was me. In another life. Before the move.

I now knew where I have entered.

I now knew I was in my old home.

The red door, the door to my childhood memories.

Before I was perceived by my peers.

Before I internalized that I looked different. That I wasn’t like everyone else.

I think back on the move, after all these years and how times have changed.

How my confidence in my skin tone has grown.

How my confidence in my textured hair has grown.

How the tears I shed when I looked into the mirror only purified my dark complexion more.

It shed my years. It opened my pores. It softened my wrinkles.

It rewrote my scripts. I was beautiful all along.

I’ve become something I used to be.

Carefree.

The boy turns. He feels my presence. He smiles.

“What you looking at?” He giggles, “I’m still here.”