R.S.V.P.

Nov. 14: J. K. Rowling

It was Saturday.

I realized that I had nothing to do.

And no one who cared enough to want to do something with me.

I remembered talking to Rory.

It reminded me that I used to like to read.

It was something I did because I enjoyed it.

When I stop feeling.
I stopped reading.

I sat in my bedroom and picked up a copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
It was the book that made me like reading.

So I sat all day and I read.

I had heard that the dementors represented depression.
That J. K. Rowling had gone through a stage of depression.

It felt good, in a way, to know there was someone who could relate.
Even though I wouldn't wish these feelings on anyone in the world.

And I remembered that there was a point in my life that I was happy.

That at one point I was filled with hope and believed in magic.

At one point I wasn't full of despair.
I didn't think about dying.

I was innocent.
I was naïve.

I was a child.

I wished I was a child again,
Because back then
There was nothing wrong with the world.

Maybe there still isn't.
But there's definitely something wrong with me.

I read the chapter with the Mirror of Erised.
I wondered what it would show me.

It would show me.
A me that was a happy.
A me with healed scars.

I knew she'd probably never get it,
But I wrote the letter anyway.

J. K. Rowling,
Will you please try and make it to my funeral?  It will be near the end of December of this year.

R.S.V.P. to my mother.

Goodbye,
Caitlyn

P.S. Thank you for your books. For the idea of magic. For sharing what you went through. You make it hard not to believe that, "Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times if only one remembers to turn on the light." There's only one problem. I can't seem to find the light switch. And the light bulb seems to be out.