Saturday, June 21, 2003

Dear Henry:

This was your kind of night. We ran into friends (that's Emma Rose below with Jack) and there was a lot of excitement. One of the things that I love about you is the love you have for things and people and places. You were passionate. You got excited. You couldn't wait. You smiled. You danced. You were alive. You were magical. You love Harry Potter.

Clearly, Jack loves Harry Potter, too.

Tonight there were Bertie Bots, Butter Beer, Dobies, Harrys, Hermonies and maybe even Rons, though I didn't see any redheads. It was a party. It made me think back to the Harry Potter party that you and Jack threw for your friends. There was no special occasion; you never needed one. You and Jack decorated the house to make it feel like Hogwarts. We watched the first movie and everyone had a great time. Your friends came in costume. The signs are still up here and there. I think your room was Dumbledore's office.

We picked up our book and I made sure we got the CDs, too. So much of the past few years were spent in the car listening to Jim Dale read the Prisoner of Azkaban or the Goblet of Fire. I know how it will feel listening to this one. I'll enjoy it, but it will feel strange. It will feel sad.

I love you my Boy Who Lived. I wanted so much for the magic to work.


p.s. Jack is setting a record for staying up late.

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