Time travel…
I don’t know a single kid who hasn’t dreamed about it at some point.
Can it be done? Is it real science, or just science fiction? Who knows?
The movies have certainly had their fun with it. The Terminator. Back to the Future. Avengers. Television gave us shows like Quantum Leap. And if you’re willing to stretch the definition a little, we’ve probably all done it in our dreams.
Go back and do something differently. Fix a mistake. Say the thing you should have said. Take the other road. Or go forward. See what happens. Find out how everything turns out, then come back armed with the knowledge to change it.
Honestly?
Blah, blah, blah.
I have no interest in any of that.
I’ll tell you what I’d do.
I’d go back and relive my life exactly as it happened—but this time, I’d watch it through an observer’s eyes.
I wouldn’t change anything. I wouldn’t warn myself about what was coming. I wouldn’t whisper winning lottery numbers into my younger self’s ear or stop myself from making some stupid mistake.
And there were plenty of stupid mistakes.
I’d just watch.
I’d watch myself experience those moments again. I’d see my reactions instead of merely remembering how I think I reacted. I’d watch the people around me. See their faces when I walked into a room. Hear conversations exactly as they happened. Notice the things I was too young, too distracted, too angry, too excited, or simply too busy living to notice the first time.
I’d go back and watch my brother and me playing banana ball.
I’d like to see that again. Not the polished version that has survived in my memory, but the real thing. The arguments over whether somebody was safe or out. The rules that probably changed depending on who was winning. The certainty, possessed only by children, that whatever game we were playing at that particular moment was the most important sporting event in human history.
No cameras. No instant replay. No multimillion-dollar contracts. Just two brothers playing banana ball.
I’d go back to my mother’s kitchen. I wouldn’t just remember her salsa. I’d watch her make it. I’d watch her hands.
There are recipes you can write down on a card, and then there are recipes that live in someone’s hands. A little of this. A little more of that. Taste it. Adjust it. No measuring cup required.
I’d want to taste that salsa again—not some version of it that I’ve spent years convincing myself is close enough. Hers.
And while we’re revisiting the treasured moments of my youth, I suppose we should also revisit the first time I took my parents’ car without permission.
No license.
No permission.
No particular concern for the laws of the State of California.
Just a boy, a car, and the kind of confidence that can only come from having absolutely no idea what the hell you’re doing. I would love to watch that one from the outside. Not interfere, mind you. Just observe.
Maybe sit comfortably on the curb as my younger self climbed behind the wheel with the swagger of a man who had been driving professionally for decades instead of someone whose previous automotive experience consisted largely of sitting in the passenger seat.
I’d want to see my face when the engine started.
That first realization: Holy crap. I’m actually doing this.
Then perhaps the second realization: Holy crap. I’m actually doing this.
Same words. Entirely different meaning.
And somewhere in the distance, I imagine the future version of me watching the whole thing, shaking his head and wondering how this idiot ever survived long enough to become me.
But that’s exactly why I wouldn’t stop him. Because I know something he doesn’t.
He makes it.
I’d see people I haven’t seen in years. Some I’ll never see again. I’d sit at tables with people who are gone now and listen to conversations that, at the time, seemed completely ordinary.
That might be the strangest part of traveling back.
Knowing.
Knowing which goodbye was actually goodbye. Knowing which Christmas would be the last one with everyone there. Knowing that the voice coming from the other room—one I barely noticed because I had heard it a thousand times—would someday be a voice I would give almost anything to hear once more.
But I still wouldn’t change anything.
I wouldn’t tell anyone what was coming. I wouldn’t interfere. I’d just stay a little longer. Listen a little closer.
Maybe that’s what age does to memory. When we’re young, we remember the big things—the firsts, the victories, the disasters, the times we got caught and, perhaps even more fondly, the times we didn’t.
But as the years pass, the ordinary things begin to matter more.
The sound of the house.
The cars in the driveway.
The way the neighborhood looked before everything changed.
My brother waiting for me to throw the ball.
My mother standing in the kitchen making salsa.
My parents’ car sitting exactly where they left it before their apparently trustworthy son decided it needed to go for a little unscheduled excursion.
I’d watch moments I remember perfectly and discover that maybe I don’t remember them perfectly at all.
And then there would be the moments I’ve completely forgotten—the ordinary Tuesday afternoons, the car rides, the dinners, the jokes, the arguments, the people sitting around doing absolutely nothing important.
The moments nobody knew were worth remembering.
I think those might be the ones I’d want to see most.
So if someone ever builds a time machine, they can keep the lottery numbers. They can keep the stock tips. They can keep the opportunity to fix every mistake I ever made.
Besides, if I started fixing my mistakes, I’d probably screw everything up. I’ve seen enough time-travel movies to know how that turns out.
No.
Put me somewhere off to the side where nobody can see me. Give me a chair. And maybe some coffee. Let the past unfold exactly the way it did.
I’ll watch.
I’ll laugh at that kid.
I’ll probably shake my head at him more than once.
And every now and then, when he doesn’t know enough to appreciate the moment he’s living, I’ll appreciate it for him.
I don’t want another chance.
I just want another perspective.
There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com.
Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing—one post at a time.
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© 2026 Mariano Velez ~ InkBlotz Press
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