My copy of A Wrinkle in Time had belonged to my mother, and it was worn a crooked-cover skewed and perfect. She gave it to me when I said I was bored of Junie B Jones, that I wanted something more serious.
I was some age before ten, but not by much. I read it almost in one sitting, or lay-down, anyway. I was exhausted the next morning, yet still a couple chapters short of the end, and I pretended to be asleep when my mom came to check on me so she’d let me be. So they’d all let me be, so I could keep reading. Thank god it was the weekend.
Upon finishing, I did a thing I still might do today when a book moves me: I hugged it to my chest, dipped my head, breathed, and then ran my fingers down the spine. Thank you.
I’d never quite been taken seriously until that moment.
When the way gets lost to me I’ll still pick up some Madeline L’engle, dive right in, and forget as hard as I can what a chiche start “It was a dark and stormy night” is, how the end of a story doesn’t have to be so abrupt. As hard as I can, I will not remember these things.
Instead I’ll remember being just-under-ten, under the blankets all except my face, reading by the light of the streetlamp outside. My breath steady and slow, and Charles Wallace’s life in my hands.
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