Looking through my colossal bookshelf, overstuffed with Jane Austens and Jodi Picoults, my fingers graze the edge of a well-worn cover. Tracing the familiar creases, I lovingly draw the book out of its niche. It slides out easily, as if it is eager to be held. Though the sleeve is long lost, I can recognize the book by its distinctive weight, familiar as a good friend. The hardback is battered, with little watermarks from carrying it in the rain, and it bears the unmistakable softness of a book that has never been lonely. Slowly, so as not to strain the delicate binding, I turn to a page near the middle. The scent of old paper, a soft aroma, wafts out.

I am six again, cradling the new book in my lap as I meet Harry Potter for the first time and together we explore his world. Bright sunlight, filtered by the tree I am leaning against, illuminates the page like light through green stained glass. The world is blooming with vibrant greens and pinks and blues, but all I see is Harry.

I am eight again, reading the book for a second time. I hide it in my lap as my teacher defaces the white board with numbers like a foreign language, but all I see is Harry, still discovering magic for the first time, his life standing still while mine wouldn’t for a moment.

I look up from my book to see not a blooming garden or glaring teacher, but a sturdy bookshelf packed too tightly. I close the book and touch the cover one last time before placing it in my closet, where books go when they are done, the magic read out of them. In its place, I put Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the final installment of the series I started when I was six.

As I scrutinize the new addition to my bookshelf, I realize that I have just placed my childhood in my closet. Something to remember but not relive, tucked away for safekeeping.