Reality to Me

A school assignment, turned short life story.

Sitting on the couch, next to my mom, listening to the works of C.S. Lewis, Oscar Wilde, and Antoine de Saint-Exupery, the books were illuminated by Tiffany lamps. As my mom continued, Mr. Tumnus appeared and turned off the light. Next to my mother he sat and smiled as she read. He was soon accompanied by Lucy, as my mother continued with the story. This happened with almost every story I had the pleasure of reading and is the reason I am led to believe that Narnia is in the back of my mother’s wardrobe.

I almost feel like Lucy from The Chronicles of Narnia, because I get lost in a different world every time I open up a book. I may also feel this due to being pushed around as a child, although it wasn’t by my siblings but the kids in my class. Being the largest kid through elementary school was never easy, but I found solace in fiction. Reading brought joy through the pain and helped me get through grade school. I remember a time in first grade where I got so into Bunicula that I believed my parents were vampires. The kids left me alone, too frightened to think I was kidding, but the teachers didn’t. They pulled me out of class to tell me to stop telling false tales. But to me, they weren’t false; no, my parents didn’t roam the town at night, draining people of blood, but the kids left me alone to read and that was enough.

To this day I have found that reading is a release for me. One series, Harry Potter, has taught me a lot, even if I have yet to read it. I have come to understand that Albus Dumbledore, headmaster during Harry’s time at Hogwarts, was a wise fellow. J.K. Rowling once wrote him saying, “Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.” Turning on the same multicolored Tiffany lamp from my childhood, and sitting under its glow, brings me peace and knowledge that fictional characters are only as real as you let them be.