Every summer, I re-read Harry Potter.
It’s something my sister and I have been doing together for years, and honestly it’s one of my favorite things. I look forward to visiting the Wizarding World every summer, especially when things in my own life feel distinctly non-magical. Sometimes, I can’t wait until summer, so I read the books over Christmas.
Since summer vacation has arrived for my students, I’m counting this month as the beginning of summer for me too (though, if you want to be picky, summer doesn’t really begin until June 21st)! And this year my mom, sister, and I will be trekking through an epic re-read of the second and third books of Brandon Sanderson’s Stormlight Archive, in preparation for the release of the fourth book in November.
It is the summer of the re-read. I could not be more excited.
Someone I work with recently said that she doesn’t understand why people re-read books. I have so many feelings about this, I didn’t even know how to respond to her in that moment. How can you not re-read books?
How can you not want to hear your favorite stories again? That’s like saying you only listen to every song one time, or only try every food once.
Re-reading adds richness. It lets you explore the depth of your favorite places, re-acquaint yourself with favorite characters. It lets you return to the time and place you first heard a favorite story, when the words captivated you and inspired you and changed you.
Granted, I don’t re-read every book–that would take forever. Some books are one-time reads.
But some books just resonate with your soul a different way. I feel sorry for anyone who has yet to meet a book that compelled them to revisit its pages.
Re-read
Not to reclaim–
to remind,
to regret the inevitable of moving on,
to come somewhat closer
to accepting the distance.
Some closure, perhaps,
some hope that lost things
can be found.
Through cream-colored glasses
you can look in on your old self,
the corner, cramped and cozy
where you used to sit,
the honest window, the chocolate you held in one hand,
a savored luxury,
like the first read of a real adventure.
Moments live suspended within time-bound pages,
rain-flavored and coffee-stained,
and the summer breeze rustles through them
stirring up echoes
like wishes from a dandelion.
They ride the wind as far as it will take them,
borne by a whim into the unknown,
alone,
to become themselves where they fall.
And who can say
where we might meet them someday,
when some searching soul
picks them up
to wish again?
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