Reading and writing are my favorite things to do by far. The smell of fresh paper and the feeling of creativity in my mind gives me an inner peace and acceptance with myself. Since I was a small girl I loved and appreciated the beauty of a story and it’s words. I can remember the first time that I really fell in love with reading, and that is a time I will never forget.




It happened in the fall about five years ago. I had just turned 9, and school had begun again. It was sometime during the weekend, and I recall because my mother was working and she only works on the weekends. My babysitter, Ashley, thought it would be a good idea to go to the library. She got my brother, Thomas, ready while my sisters and I got ready. Her long, dark, thick hair was brushed over one shoulder, and she looked at us with big brown eyes, and gave us her big, white smile.





When we got there, I was not at all interested in any books. I only liked to read a book series called “Junie B. Jones.” Still, I looked around at the colorful book covers and the enchanting titles. I allowed my fingers to dance on the spines of the books, as my eyes translated every letter into a new and exotic title. When I had felt every book, I went back and sat on a chair and let my eyes wander the scene. I noticed a very intriguing book that stood quite proudly on one of the shelves. Curiosity had gotten the better of me, and I went to investigate further.





Before even laying a finger on the book, I took a moment to admire the artwork on the cover. To my amazement, there was a little boy who was riding a broomstick in the air. His small, pale fingers reached out for some sort of golden orb with wings. Though the shiny, flying ball distracted him, it didn’t distract me from seeing a three-headed dog, unicorn, or a mysterious figure lingering within the shadows of some large, dark wood. I read the title, “Harry Potter, and the Sorcerers Stone.” ‘Is that what he’s after?’ I asked myself, ‘just a stone?’ It’s neat that you remember this so well, and that you can convey that memory so convincingly!





I still wondered about the other things that decorated the page. The three-headed dog, the unicorn, and the mysterious hooded man all looked inviting. So, once again, curiosity taking over my decisions, I took the book off it’s shelf and opened it to chapter one. I promised myself that I would read only one chapter, just to give the book a chance. I opened the book, and the pleasant, mysterious aroma of old paper and ink rose to my nostrils, and I breathed it in as I began the book.




Time passed by, and I was on the final pages of chapter two. I found out that the book was about a strange little boy from England, who lived with his aunt, uncle, and ignorant cousin. The protagonist of the book was named Harry Potter. He had a very sad life, he lived in the little closet under the staircase of his Aunt and Uncle’s house, and his parents had passed away when he was only a small baby. Even though his life was tragic, there was something about him that made him special. But neither I, nor Harry, knew exactly what that was. I quickly grew very fond of the story, and the way the author made everything seem real.




Soon it was time to leave. I wanted to check the book out of the library, but we lacked a library card to check it out. So, crestfallen, I went back home. I still very curious about what happened to the little strange boy from under the stairs. The story had captured my interest, and sparked my imagination like no other book had before. It was riveting.




My mother came home shortly after, and I told her about the story. She drank her coffee, and played with her short, brown, thick hair as her green eyes looked at me intently as I spoke.

“Maybe we’ll go to the library after work tomorrow and you can get it.” She told me when I had finished. I smiled, happily. I couldn’t wait to find out what happened.

The next day my mother had brought me something from the store. She raised up a somewhat translucent, plastic Wal-Mart bag.

“Do you want to see what I got you?” She asked me.

I nodded my small head, and walked over to look inside. Inside of the bag I saw a small, paperback book. The title read “Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone.” I smiled, and gave her a hug.

“Thank you!” I said excitedly.

My mother kissed my forehead softly, and retreated into her bedroom to change out of her navy blue scrubs. I continued reading where I had left off. It looked like Harry and I would find out what would happen after all.




A few days passed, and I finished the book. I told my mother how it ended at the kitchen table during breakfast.

“I’m sad that it’s over.” I said, after I finished a long explanation about the story.

My dad soon walked in, adjusting his white pharmacist coat.

“What book were you reading?” He asked me.

“It was called ‘Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone.’” I said to him.

Imagine my excitement when he told me that that it was a book series, and that there were six more tales still left to discover.

Harry Potter was one of the many loves of mine, but it will remain close to my heart because it was my first love. Not only was it my first book love, but it was a story full of beauty, fantasy, and wonder. That was the story that made me fall in love with literature, and that is a time that will forever have a place in my heart.