The Day Magic Died

I first read the Chronicles of Narnia when I was 7. They were the first books I read and enjoyed. They inspired in me a voracious desire to read. They magic and beauty of the books spoke to me in a way I didn't really understand. I wanted to find Narnia, I wanted to go there. I had a vivid imagination as a child and part of me, at 7, believed if I looked long enough, if I looked in the right places, I could find a way to get there. Every closet, every crawl space, every attic, every hidden nook and cranny I looked in for a doorway, a path. I was obsessive about it for years.

When I was 13 my family took a trip to visit my mother's high school friend Laurie. There was an honest-to-goodness wardrobe in the front hall of the house. At that point I had almost given up my search, realized the gap that separated fiction and the real world was impassable, realized I was too old to believe in Narnia anymore. But part of me still had hope, I had to check.

I waited for the adults to be occupied in the kitchen, snuck into the front hall, and opened the wardrobe. I reached my hand passed the coats and quickly hit the wooden back. At the same moment my mom and Laurie walked into the front hall.

Laurie: What's he doing?
Mom: He's looking for Narnia.
Laurie+Mom: (laugh)

I was crushed. Overwhelmed with anger, shame, and grief I sprinted up the stairs, slammed myself into a closet and cried.

After a time my mom followed me up stairs and told me she was sorry, they weren't laughing at me, they thought it was cute. I told her to leave me alone. To please leave me alone. And eventually she did.

I was embarrassed, felt stupid and childish. But sitting in that dark closet crying I realize now I wasn't so much up set with my mother or her friend. I was in mourning. I was grieving. A dream I cultivated so long was dead. There was no way to get to Narnia.

There never had been.