i hope my words are strange and wondrous,

like kisses that quiet all things superfluous,

so that we can all stop and

listen

that lay in the words on paper between covers

belongs to the very first memories in my mind.

the wonder, the excitement, the thrill of a story

the characters that take my hand and draw me in,

that whisper in my ear.

the words that tumble over each other,

delicious, enchanting, flirting with every bit of my fancy

and wind themselves into my imagination,

fanning the flame into a full out roar.

the satisfaction in the turning of the page,

in the closing of the covers at another one finished

or an exercising of a dearly beloved, cracked and worn spine.

and they followed me,

across oceans,

on airplanes,

into house after house after house,

to new schools,

through bullying,

to classrooms and first accomplishments.

they stayed with me

in laughter,

in delight,

in boredom,

in excitement,

in fatigue,

in tears,

in pain,

in loneliness,

in heartbreak,

in despair.

and to them i owe so much.

lately i've been a little lost.

in the necessity and the grind of the have-to's,

and i nearly forgot the sheer content,

and my heart right now it is filled full and bursting.

the irony,

of rediscovering, through a movie,

a love for my books.

but i'm back,

treading the middle line,

between immersion and escape.

befriending the irrepressible Anne Shirley,

dancing with Elizabeth Bennet,

having tea in the small room of Polly Milton,

playing Pickwick with Jo March in the attic,

conversing with little Lord Fauntleroy

going into battle with Lucy and Aslan,

meeting the Little Prince's rose,

watching the rain go down on that nameless street,

holding my breath, at the characters etched onto the heart of a girl,

crying for the Kite Runner and his friend,

delighting in Emma's Mr. Knightley,

believing always,

that one day this story of mine,

will unfold just as wonderfully.

it must.

this is a prayer.

but it is also an answered one.