Over the last five years I gradually stopped reading. Between school and work my normal reading schedule was thrown out of balance. I went to bed as soon as I got home every day and I left as soon as I woke up the next morning. Towards the beginning of winter break after my first quarter of college had ended I was reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for the fifth time. I laid in my bed with the reading light dimmed. Swaddled in blankets, I couldn’t move my body much from the comfort of the perfect position I found for reading. I was relaxed in the comfort of my own home and my own belongings. Christmas was right around the corner so my spirits were high as well as ready for some rest after the stress of my first quarter of college. I had started my annual reread of my favorite series over the summer but once school started I was lost in the abyss of routine and found myself unable to find the time to finish the series again.

 

I could feel the amount of pages in my left hand growing as the amount of pages in my right hand started to dwindle down to anxiety inducing amounts. No one ever wants the story to end, no matter how many times they have read it. I was metaphorically on the edge of my seat trying to force myself to read slowly and take in every word, while my brain fought me saying that I had to sprint the last lap and face the end head on. With much effort I read slowly. My room got darker and the sounds of night animals outside my window grew louder. Coyotes howled feet from the wall behind which I laid.

 

It was all still happening way too fast. Before I could stop them, tears were rolling down my face. I felt silly, had I not read the book a thousand times? Had I not known what was going to happen? How could I possibly justify crying? Yet with every page I cried harder. I screamed when Mcgonagall screamed and curled myself into a tighter ball as the end of the story unfolded. Emotions I hadn’t had the time to deal with over the last five years were coming up all at once. I was older than the last time I had read the book. I understood more of the characters. I felt what they were feeling on a deeper level. Each character’s pain was inside of me and my heart was breaking. I was feeling both the emotions of father and mother, sister and friend, and teacher and student. I was horrified by what happened. I was scared that it happened at all, it was real to me. I had lost my friends. I had lost family. I felt and understood every aspect of the heavy conclusion like never before.

As I read the epilogue and gently shut the book I closed my eyes and just let all my emotions pour out. I was dissatisfied with the ending, I still had questions, yet I was happy to know that those left were safe. And I was excited because I had forgotten how a book can show you adventure, time travel, mind reading, and magic. As I laid with my eyes closed I told myself I would start reading again, if only to force myself to experience emotions. I had developed an insatiable thirst for more adventure. I had to find another adventure to go on. I resolved to read more, to find the time even if I had to rearrange my daily schedule. My eyes stayed shut and I drifted off to sleep still swaddled in the warm blanket and comfort of familiarity. That night I dreamed about all the possible adventures I would go on next.

Evarosa Perry