About six months ago, I began to read Harry Potter for the first time. Years later than most everyone else, I discovered Hogwarts and Quidditch, Dumbledore's love and wisdom, Harry's goodness and courage, and most especially, a much greater love for friendship and bravery.
I've been so excited to begin a lot of my other summer reading, (like: Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close and The Help. I breezed over them both while at Barnes & Noble this past weekend and had to be pulled away) Except once I finally finished the last page in the last Harry Potter book, I didn't feel like reading anything else. In a weird way, it's like I had to allow myself at least twenty-four hours to "mourn" the end of the Harry Potter series.
Is that too much?
Most likely.
But if anything, that means all the late nights regardless of early morning classes were well worth it. The first book that ever made me feel similar was A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. I must have read it when I was twelve or thirteen years old, but I remember crying throughout the final chapters, not only because Francie was growing up, but because the book was ending.
It all sounds silly, but finishing a book can almost feel as sad as goodbye.
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