I sit on the crowded M train, only 20 more stops to go, with a hardcover copy of "Harry Potter and the Prizoner of Azkaban," by J.K. Rowling, in my hand. My eyes skirt across the ground, looking at people’s shoes—anything is better than making eye contact. The smells of winter, body odor and urine are all mixed into one train car, reminding me of how beautiful the city we live in is, but even more so how badly I want to leave it behind. I decide to ignore the scratchy voice of the train conductor on the loudspeaker, I turn my iPod off and I shake the exhaustion from my eyes. I open to the first page for the fourth or fifth time in my life, and I’m overwhelmed with a sense of familiarity. The crisp scent of the old pages drowns out the dirty subway toxins, and I feel much warmer than I did before. The seat underneath me is suddenly softer, and I am no longer on the smelly M train, headed through three boroughs just to get home.
Suddenly, I was at Number Four Privet Drive, on the other side of the world. I’m anxiously hoping Harry doesn’t get caught studying his books from Hogwarts. I’m alongside The-Boy-Who-Lived while he gets screamed at by his muggle guardians for being different, and while he is missing his friends. The best part about rereading a book is finding a little more magic between the lines than you did the first time around. The first time you read a book, there is more concern with, “Oh my, what is going to happen to poor Harry this year?” You may be a skipper, one of those people who skim through the longer paragraphs to get to the action. I’ll be honest, I’ve been guilty of that on occasion. J.K. Rowling says it the best, “Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.”
I find myself nestled snugly into the third chapter of "The Prizoner of Azkaban" when my train gets to the last stop. The mechanical voice recording echos me out of my stupor: “This is the last stop on this train. Please leave the train...” For once, I don’t want to leave the train. I want to stay in my imaginary world of comfort and words. The only thing that would have made my escape into the world of wizards and broomsticks any better would have been a hot cup of tea. I don’t care what anyone says about the wizarding world not being a real one, it is real for us. It was real for us the first time, the second, and, however, many times after. Harry Potter became a safe haven for the generation, and people ask if I still love it after all this time, and I have to reply with: “Always.”
Rest Easy, Alan Rickman
We will love you...Always.
