It was released July 21st, just 3 days ago. I sat, a grown man, waiting for a (so called) children’s book. It arrived early Saturday morning, around 8:30 a.m. via UPS. The box was striped with bold lettering, “Do Not Open before July 21st!” I ripped the box apart and saw the off-yellow cover of the book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

It felt weird holding a book I had been waiting nearly 10 years to read. I knew that inside an adventure that began in 1998 (US Release) with the book, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was finally coming to a close. I had read each previous installment feverishly, at a pace that usually involved nothing else being done for about 10 hours. I read then again when I was bored. The books brought me back to a place I used to visit frequently in childhood with books like The Castle in the Attic or The Indiana in the Cupboard. In this place I became lost. My mind entered the book and the world around seemed to disappear. I could see the characters faces like they were in front of me. I feet their triumphs, failures, hope and loss. The Harry Potter series took me back to this place and sometimes I didn’t want to leave.

The final book Harry Potter book was hard to read. I knew that once I started I wouldn’t stop until I was done. I knew that if I started it would be the last time I read a new adventure of Harry Potter. I spread out my reading over two days. I spent a majority of Sunday reading and finished it off last night. I feared that if I did not read it quickly some bastard on the news or elsewhere would irresponsibly share details of the book that might spoil the ending.

It may sound odd to most but I found myself, at times, tearing up as I read the book. The emotions I felt as I turned each page are hard to put into words. I didn’t want to reach the end but I had to know what happen to the boy wizard I had been following for so long. My daughter, wife, mom and sister have all read the books and have eagerly awaited each new addition but I get the feeling that they don’t quite feel the same way I do about them.

Here I sit, a grown man with kids of my own, mourning the end of of a series of children’s books. Thank you, J.K. Rowling, for your books. They mean more to me than I can put into words.

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