I squeeze my eyes closed so tightly I feel as though the pressure in my head will burst like a bottle of champagne, fizzing wildly over my room.
The last moments of my 17th birthday are drifting away, and it still hasn't come.
The one dream gift, stuck in my mind since childhood
Stuck like my blankie that was glued to my side,
Stuck like the silly putty I threw upon the ceiling,
Stuck like my tiny child fingers in a Chinese finger trap.
I hear the soft tick as my neon clock turns to midnight
I know my gift has not arrived.
"Next year," I tell myself, "It's only 9 years late."
Next year, my acceptance letter to Hogwarts will certainly arrive.

And I know that desires for wizardry are peculiar, like a lone muggle on Platform Nine and Three Quarters.
The other girls gush, "I need to have the newest smart phone for my 17th birthday!"
Or "did you just see that Cadillac? I would die to get it for my 17th!"
Or, "You know? All I really want is The purest cashmere sweater, the O.M.G stilettos, and the Victoria Secret bra-"
And I think, "how smart is your smart phone compared to my owl?"
At Hogwarts, I'll wear a one-size-fits-all robe for the rest of the year.
And I won't need a Cadillac cause I'll have my own flying Ford Anglia.

And though it might defy all normality, a mere foolish fantasy,
I close my eyes tighter and I feel the Magic come nearer
The swoosh of the snowy owls' wings, as they glistening white against the dark sky like the moon itself
The Bang! and Clang! of spells galore that spark like my birthday cake candles,
The sweet aroma of the butter beer that wafts throughout the air.
The rumble of those moving marble staircases maneuvering like pranksters meddling with students,
The bubbling of the boiling potions from which smoke billows and colors boom,
The grimacing glares from the goblins that examine me like an X-ray as I pass through Gringotts Bank.
The jubilant streets of Diagon Alley, hidden from London like it's under an invisibility cloak.

The Magic is real, as real as my daydreams and doodles that dance in my mind.
The magic is the reason why I have read in my closet under the stairs since I can remember
Why I love my puffy, bushy hair that fluffs out like Hermione's,
Why I talk to myself in British accents which are as fake as my plastic wand,
Why I try to hiss out sounds to the snakes at zoo,
(While passersby look on with disapproving eyes that are riddle with fear),
Why I have written several novels in my brain,
(like " The Chronicles of Harry Potter and the Vampire Lord Voldemort of The Rings Who Catches Fire")
Why I know Sonorus, Serpensortia and Stupefy,
Magic is the reason, or so I thought, that my st-st-stutter disapparated.

After some time, my eyes open,
with fireworks of colored spots appearing before me because of the force I used.
Diagon Alley transfigures back to four plain walls,
And the marble staircases shapeshift back to my carpet, muddled with dirty laundry.
The glares from the goblins are the glossy stares from the movie posters,
While the smell of butter beer is my forgotten glass of apple juice, fermenting by this point.

A fanciful world had blossomed before my closed eyes.
A world where my childhood self flounces and floats in happiness.
But even as I opened my tense eyelids, I know the truth.
There is always next year.