I have a memory.
Not of too long ago…. just ten months. It was a late night in June, and five of us were gathered in grief over an amazing and oh-too-young friend’s death that day. Three asleep, (or nearly), on the couch and me unable to sit still to think or talk or breathe or exist.
Her Tiny hand in mine, leading me over to a huge armchair. We sit together and she hands me a familiar book. I open to her bookmarked page and begin to read – no, recite.
She had never read through the Harry Potter series before, and it had been my constant friend as a child, (and since). The words and creatures and classes and Quidditch came tumbling out with a feeling of warm constancy. Not thinking, not talking, not breathing, not existing. Just reading, just sharing, just flying, just… what I needed.
I think it was The Goblet of Fire. Yes, it must have been, because I remember her Tiny eyelids closing as Winky sputtered on about something about the duty of house elves, and I kept reading. Because stopping was worse than reading to no one.
Just for the first night, if sleep wouldn’t be my companion, Harry sure would be.
That’s all…. I just wanted to record another time that Harry Potter was there for me in a really, truly necessary way. I hope that’s okay.
You don’t think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble?