We all keep museums,
Hiding away treasures for preservation.
Wide marble staircases
With cool, gleaming brass handrails
Going in as many directions
As your interests.
Some hallways are unused,
Now dusty and cluttered
With exhibits no longer on display.
Childhood toys and books;
Furniture, and rooms, that have vanished,
Along with places you no longer visit;
Lost or forgotten relatives and friends,
And family pets you didn’t bond with.
It’s a tragedy when a museum becomes a dead thing,
Filled only with the distant past;
Colors fading and lights dimming,
Until only pale shadows in twilight remain
To remind us of what was once alive.
In a living museum exhibits change daily.
A new park, and the road that got you there;
A new friend, or a new hobby;
Pictures and stories of an aunt that just passed away;
Some favorite flowers you just grew;
A nephew’s first car, and your first ride in it.
This is the Hall of Experience.
Like a ganglion it connects to all other halls
In ways you can barely explain – just let it take you.
Exhibits here are filled with details of our lives
All merging in a kaleidoscopic dance of association,
Connecting each being, object, place and idea
That has ever entered our experience.
Memories new and old swirl around us
Waiting to catch our eye and draw us in.
Our job as curators is to choose things to save.
Now I need to go and gather new exhibits.
© 2008 Michael Yanega
29 October 2008