I was 8
I remember my aunt giving it to me.
She handed it to me with a smile and said “Read it. You’ll love it.”
I held on to it tightly that day. Carried it around. I was so excited to read this book.
It was thick, thicker than anything I had ever read before. It made me feel all grown up.
I went home that night to read. And read I did.
I read it, then read it again, over and over and over until the cover of my book was ripped and torn, the pages were bent, and the spine cracked whenever I opened it.
When that book was open I was in another world, trapped, and I could free myself.
Nor did I want too
But I loved my book and all it’s frayed edges
All my mid-class daydreams, page corner doodles, and little paragraphs of stories I never finished all because of this compilation of words and ideas that fit together so seamlessly.
It consumed every waking moment of my day and forced it’s way into my dreams.
I thought I was too old for that kind of stuff,