Personal Narrative Essay: A Trip To The Library

I run up the cold library steps two at a time, gasping for air. The time is short. Librarians poke their heads out as I race past their desk. They want to tell me to slow down, but they have gotten used to my unusual haste. Stopping for a minute to breathe, I look towards the rows of smooth wooden shelves and mentally plot my next movements. Time is ticking. Brisk steps take me past each column of books. I mutter the name quietly as I go, eyes scanning the area, ears alert for the slightest noise. A sudden left turn takes me to the destination. After a brief check of my surroundings, I slide the battered novel off the shelf and open it to the next chapter. The race has begun. I have never crossed the street alone. I have never used

A trip to a local library occurs every Friday. First we usually go to the first floor, all nonfiction, before proceeding to the second fiction floor. Our mother always stays close to us as we select our books, but if one of us picked quickly and ran upstairs while the other delayed, she would probably remain with the first girl. I am the logical choice to run ahead, being older and the faster reader of us two. Joanna will suitably distract our mother while I read one chapter, then rejoin them. Later that night, I will lean over the railing and whisper the contents of the chapter to my sister as we fall

I follow little Harry Potter from his cupboard under the stairs to Diagon Alley. Gasping in wonder, I read of his arrival at Hogwarts, classes, and new friends. Along the way, I learn a lot of things I had always known but never knew how to say, such as not to dwell on dreams, everything is not as it appears, and the importance of friendship and love. Friday becomes my favorite day for nineteen marvelous weeks. For the first time in my life, I discover a kindred spirit. I feel empathy for Harry as he makes his way uncertainly through a strange magical world where he has always belonged, and rather think this is how it will feel when I finally leave home myself. Tears, muffled laughter, and smiles of pure joy accompany my secret readings. Each week as I return the book to its place, I think to myself I have never read a book I had loved so much. My sister loses interest in the middle, but agrees to keep running the diversions. Library day cannot come fast enough. In the midst of the magic, I realize the importance of my love for the works of J. K. Rowling. Harry Potter does not contain devil worship. My mother was wrong. Eyes suddenly opened, I wonder in earnest what other wonderful things I have missed because of her domination. Such thoughts have entered my mind before, but now I become more desperate than ever to learn, understand, and ask