Sometimes I’d believe I could slip into it, if I could just find the portal to enter. A place that would accept me, quirks and all.
When I was in seventh grade, my mother handed me a book.
“Read it, it’s a best seller,” she said.
I scoffed, “I don’t do best sellers.”
“Read it,” my mother commanded. And since she usually made no demands regarding my reading material (other than screening it first), I obliged out of kibbud eim. It’s a good thing it was my mother who introduced me to Harry Potter, even forced it on me, because she had no one but herself to blame for my subsequent obsession.
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