A letter started it all.
The boy who lived was my safe place.
I found comfort when I was laying in a hospital bed,
or out of school for weeks
through reading these books.
My love lies deep with the weathered pages.
It is purely literate,
genuinely loyal.
My childhood torn apart
as brutally as wetted paper.
Victim of abuse.
Divorce.
Disease.
And yet
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were there
through it all.
They helped me to escape.
I was part of a world that I could only dream of.
The reality and imagination,
were difficult to determine.
But I knew I was safe.
These people...
could not hurt me.
I was immune...
to all sickness.
And I was happy.
But utmost gratitude,
lies with everyone
from J.K. Rowling to the set designers.
They helped me
in a time of need.
They were there when others were not.
For this,
I am eternily grateful.
And I will never cease
to let my imagination ponder the idea
that somewhere...
Albus, James, Lily, and Rose are off at school...
learning how to transfigure a match into a needle,
for the first time.
Because in my heart,
all of this is true.
And I would not be me,
if it were not.
