Sometimes a poem doesn’t simply give us words.
Sometimes it quietly opens a door.
Recently I reread a favorite poem that immediately carried me back to summers I thought I had almost forgotten.
Family afternoons at the swimming pool. The sound of laughter. Friends. Students. The simple joy of sharing books and discovering new stories together.
Memories have a remarkable way of waiting patiently until something awakens them.
A scent. A photograph. A favorite book. A poem.
One of the things I loved most about teaching was watching students discover that literature isn’t simply something we read. It’s something we experience.
Every reader brings a different life to every page. That’s why one poem can mean something entirely different to each person who encounters it.
Perhaps that’s the true gift of literature. It reminds us that our own stories matter.
Some of my happiest memories involve water. Summers with family. Later, watching my parents enjoy the swimming pool they worked so hard to build. Moments that seemed ordinary then but have become priceless now.
One small object can hold an entire lifetime of memories: a favorite kitchen utensil, a treasured ring from a parent, a book whose pages have become worn through years of reading.
These things become more than objects. They become chapters.
The older I become, the more I realize that memories don’t fade because they’re unimportant. The important ones simply become part of who we are.
Perhaps every story has something to teach us. And perhaps every memory is quietly waiting for the right moment to bloom again.
Welcome to The Lyon Den. Never stop learning.
