When I was younger,

Books were glued to my hands. 

I may have truly lived 

in our white-slat house, but

I lived with the Wizard of Oz: 

because if Ozma had real friends, then 

so did I.

I walked through Narnia on a school playground, 

opened the door of an English wardrobe 

on a peeling American park bench, 

watched the world through my own 

personal rose-colored glasses, 

and believed that 

while I may have been alone, 

I was never lonely. 

And then

somewhere along the way, 

the glue on my hands melted off.

Covers were closed,

my glasses were lost, 

Ozma forgotten. 

I met my own Tin Man.

My own Cowardly Lion. 

Without even realizing 

I stepped back through the 

wardrobe door 

and reopened it, 

to someone new. 

And then I was two. 

I buried The Old Me in a 

shallow paper grave, 

tossed chapters into the coffin like dirt, 

and began again.