A moment’s touch might unravel the pages into a disarray of disjointed words and sentences of a story now so dear and sacrosanct to me, and a question might never end nor a paragraph ever lead to the denouement. The pages are blotched with yellow that are never ugly to me, but reminded me of yellow bells of my early childhood in Romblon, of the graceful passage of time–perhaps, not graceful–but an acceptance of its inescapability. Like the book is telling me, Here I am, opened and unopened for years and years, I am now blotched, but read me, let me quench your thirst, here I am. The book is tattered, poorly-kept and poorly-preserved. But the book is loved.
This is the first book that was ever given to me by mother: the sixth installment of Harry Potter. Confused? So was I. I never knew why I never started with beginning of it all. Perhaps to keep up with the Wizarding World? I do not know now. It seems that it does not matter to me. What I do know is that it would always remind me of that teenage boy reading J. K. Rowling’s words, blessed with the summer light from the open window.