Reading was my only constant in childhood.
Magic Treehouse,
Harry Potter,
Goosebumps.
The smell of ink,
the sound of pages turning.
These are portals to another reality.

I am not at my brother’s baseball game
with the harsh floodlights,
the sunflower seed shells scattered on the ground,
and the kicked up dirt invading my senses.
I’m watching Squirrel wander in A Dog’s Life
On her lifelong quest to find her brother.
I’m on the edge of my seat,
trying to discover who the werewolf is in
The Werewolf of Fever Swamp

I’m not in the back of my dad’s pickup,
as he drives me and my brother home.
Night falls,
and streetlights give me the only light
to scrutinize A Series of Unfortunate Events
Wondering where the Baudelaire children will go next.
Tuning out his voice as he says;
“You’ll hurt your eyesight,
reading in the dark.”
I’m imagining what flight feels like,
to have wings like Max in Maximum Ride
I strech my own back,
and pretend I’m part of The Angel Experiment.

Constant reading caused a constant quest:
Finding the best place to read.
Sitting at an angle in front of a window,
only for an unwanted shadow to cast on the book.
Sitting under blankets,
long past bedtime, the flashlight illuminating the pages,
needing to finish this sentence,
this paragraph,
this chapter,
this book.
Any extended amount of sitting brings
pinpricks down my legs to my feet.
The feeling of TV static.

But it was worth it.
To have a childhood full of imagination.
The smell of ink.
The sound of pages turning.
Drowning out the world.