Though I fell in love with books as a child, fascinated by the colorful tales heard during carpet reading time in grade school, it wasn’t until my teenage years that I discovered a part of myself that longed to weave literary magic of my own. A few years ago I was reminded of a forgotten part of myself that I had lost as I fell into adulthood. It’s amazing the pieces of yourself that get misplaced along the way of growing up and leaving the nest. And for some of us, when we start nests of their own. After an eight year stint in the navy, college, marriage, and two kids later I caught myself reflecting on where I am at this stage in my life. With a beautiful family and a steady career to contend with, I found that I have been blissfully content where I am in my life. No regrets or casual should’ve done this or that type moments. That is until about three years ago, completely out of the blue I was faced with that forgotten part of myself. The part that has been lying dormant in the back of my grown up trained mind that I gradually had forgotten as fickle adolescence started to fade. It was when my son was home from school during a break for the summer and said that he was bored one day. He had beat all the levels of his video games, watched all of his movies, and read all of the books that we had just gotten from the library only three days before. This should have prompted the true to heart mother in me to step forward with a lesson for him on never tell your parents that you’re bored. But instead I suggested that he create and write me a story, since I already knew first hand the mind of an eight year old little boy, that is usually filled with superhero’s, cars, and video games. I half expected a subtle eye roll from him at this suggestion. But instead I was the one caught off guard. I still remember the look on his face, like someone had just struck a match against a dying sun igniting it to its rising glory. It was that look of infallible happiness that was like a step back in time. It took me back to a place that I had long forgotten. Adolescence. Where dreams took the fore front instead of deadlines, schedules, and being lost with the day-to-day shuffle of just keeping your head above water. By the time I got home from work there was a myriad of ideas, characters, and plotlines that I read through over dinner. The same happiness that my son displayed made me take a long trip down memory lane that night, reflecting on myself at his age. Giddy after reading a good book, excited when I would tack on my own take on a story or idea. Reflection is clearly not jus something posed in mirrors. It’s been three years now since my son led me to what I had thought I had lost in myself. My long forgotten happiness at spinning words into a story that makes you giddy with excitement over the characters or a crazy plot. He reminded me of my long forgotten love affair books and the rush of inspiration that it can spawn. Through him, I was reminded of something that I had put in the rear view mirror of life, my love of writing. The flurry of emotions that creating your own story can evoke inside of you. I revisited this love of mine three years ago and have no intention of misplacing it ever again.