What Velvet Sounds Like
Crushed snow, crackling autumn leaves, grounded white sand on the beach—all underfoot. Underfoot—I’m talking about babies. Velvet’s texture dramatizes a scene, powders the fingertips, and the royal memories it evokes, brings forth sound—what I hear in imagination.
And the word compound packs a punch, as if one word is not enough. Underfoot opens up an era. A world in which my every move was important—witnessed by a host of angels…Paul, Scott, Mark, Danika, Katherine, and Beth. I will admit that at the time, I felt obscure, in isolation—like in a bird’s nest, feathered in snapped twigs, human hair, and pieces of hatched egg shells (birds will use anything to build their home). Can you hear the sound of velvet? It coos gentle like a morning dove, quips like a Bob White, and calls to its mate in song.
Velvet sounds like balloons tugged on strings, bopping into one another. Marionettes controlled by my one year old son Paul as he sat in wonder, looking up at colors, bouncing latex up and down, back and forth. His dimpled fists clutched streaming ribbons, brushed against his emerald suit. A bowtie gifted his small neck, downy hair softer than the velvet I dressed him in.
Velvet drapes frame a living room in conversation and laughter cornered by an evergreen tree sparkled in tinsel and stars. Can you hear gratitude and Merry Christmas?
I am wrapped in a quilted velvet blazer. It’s so elegant, warm, and compliments my earrings. I don’t want to take it off. It means that the holiday is over. Carols will fade into a storage box for next year. Can you hear the sound of velvet?