Dear Harry Potter,
You cast a spell on me (hehe). I’m not over you, but I tried to move on and start a new book a couple times this week. That didn’t happen. What a different scenario than 11 years ago when Mom gave you to me for Christmas and I shoved you back under the tree and promptly forgot about you. Okay, let’s be honest–I didn’t like you. Then one day, for whatever reason, I decided to pick you up and never looked back. You are life-changing, so captivating that you take my breath away sometimes. You made it a little easier to get out of bed on Mondays, knowing I’d have you to bury my nose in on my way to work. Now I feel empty, knowing that no book will ever compare to you. It’s not that I don’t have other favorites. I do. It’s just that none of those characters feel like friends to me the way you do.
Reading you again from the very beginning to the bittersweet end at 23 was so different than past readings. Back then I had to wait an agonizingly long time between books. When I finally did get my hands on a new one, I sped through so fast because I couldn’t wait to know what happened. The night Dumbledore died, I sobbed in my bed for a long, long time. This time around, I had tears in my eyes every few pages. Not because I was sad (although sometimes I was), but because I understood. I cried because I knew what was coming and you didn’t. I read you with older, slower eyes, and it was like coming home. Thank you for being my favorite escape. ‘Til we meet again, my friend.
PS – Tell Ron I love love him.