During the month of my birthday, I would notice a few aisles open up in shades of red, pink and white. Aisles dedicated for holidays, for seasons, for events. This month they were stuffed with plush toys that ranged from sizes fitting in my pocket to large than I was a full height. During the weeks leading up to my day, I would branch off from my family as we were shopping to wander down these aisles, admiring the assortments of gifts and cards. I would wonder what would be best to give to each member of my family. Of my friends. Of my classmates. Of these items, there was always one thing that I wanted only for myself.
It came in clear boxes shaped in non-traditional packaging. Pyramids, hearts and even orbs with the items stacked neatly to be displayed. The wrapping on each item was golden and sparkled in the florescent lights of the store. They sat nestled in a dark brown wrapper to indicate the importance of just one. Ferrero Rocher chocolate looked like it was made for the Gods, at least that was what my juvenile mind was convinced of. There was just one problem….
Growing up, my parents didn’t have a lot of money to spend freely. Additionally, my mother was not fond of me eating too much chocolate. Every year I would ask for that one box in exchange for any gift or party my parents could imagine. And every year I was denied with excuses of it being to expensive or too rich or I would get too hyper. As I grew a little older, my imagination for what these chocolate orbs tasted like would get out of hand. All I could think was how much I was missing out. I had imagined this candy would be for classy people. People of taste. People of style. If I were to take a bite, I would be granted this status of class.
In middle school, I finally had my try only to find glass shards where my dreams lied. “Maybe it’s stale?” I hoped as I got my hand on a different box. I take another bite. And another. And another. Each chocolate tasted the same. Each one was dry and filled with disappointments.