Saturday morning, the UPS delivery man arrived at my door by 9:30 am, and delivered the final Harry Potter book. I left it in its original box and did some shopping.
When I drive, I listen to either old rock-and-roll (and it makes me feel old, knowing the music I listened to as a teenager is now classic rock1) or NPR2. Well, there was some quasi-game show on NPR (Michael Feldman's Whad'Ya Know) and they were talking with someone related to the show. Well, either someone related to the show or someone in the audience. The woman – you can call her bitch – spoiled the first 57 pages of the book. Thanks, bitch.
Anyway, I turned to one of my other pre-sets, because classic Queen will probably not reveal anything concerning Voldemort, Harry Potter or the Ron Weesley/Hermione Granger relationship.
After dinner, I started reading the book. And I continued to read the book after my husband went to sleep.
At about 11 pm, I was looking around the house. Everything was quiet, with the only light casting its glow on my and my book. I peered over my book, and everything was quiet, simply quiet.
When I was growing up, our house was always noisy. Me and my two sibs always seemed to have friends over. In the summertime, we would be out and about fairly early in the morning, and the action did not stop until late in the evening.
Friends frequently had dinner at our house, and afterwards, we would play games, listen to music (loudly, bouncing on the bed when younger, in the driveway talking to friends when a bit older), play cards (of all things), or just chat (while eating). In short, our childhood home was alive with people.
So I am sitting in a comfortable chair, in a house that is larger than the one I grew up in, and I start to cry. It seems that life does not always go the way you plan. My husband and I have no children, no little noise makers messing up the carpet, breaking our stuff. And I want those things.
I have heard young adults talk about Harry Potter – how they grew up with the book series. Here I am in my mid-thirties3, late at night, reading a kid's book. I would have much rather have been reading Dr. Seus to a cute four-year-old. Now that would be magic!
1It is a sad, twisted world when Wham is considered classic anything.
2 National Public Radio; now I really feel old.
3We are in our mid-thirties until 39.
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