Here’s a scene from ten days ago:
Lysle’s home today with nausea. He’s reading Harry Potter’s final volume. I’m writing about his Oma’s address book.
I have lots of thoughts, too many as usual – about books losing their covers, Lysle reading such a coverless thing on my Kindle and what that will do to books to lose what’s physically holding them together – when I ask him how the book is.
“It’s good. But a little sad. Headwig dies.”
I nod absentmindedly.
“You know who Headwig is, right?”
I look up from my screen. “Uh, no.”
“It’s Harry Potter’s owl.”
“What’s it called again?”
“Hedwig,” I pronounce it in German (like this: HED-vikh) and smile and look into the distance. “You know who that was?”
He looks up from his screen. “Uh, no.”
“Oma’s mother was Hedwig.”
“Really?” Lysle smiles and looks into the distance with me for a moment. “Cool.”
Head back into coverless book.
I’ll have to write a post, or more than one, about Hedwig, the Oma I never knew, the mother my mother never remembered.
I feel grateful to J.K. Rowling for having given Harry’s owl my grandmother’s name. Books, whether they concern themselves with magic or not, are magic. And magic needs a good, solid, appropriate container – a cover!
I want to learn some more about Harry’s Hedwig. He got her for his birthday in the first book, Lysle explains.
Mama got her Hedwig on the day of her birth, too, and lost her four years later.