[ IP ] What we found there

You know when you ’ re a kid, and all the stories seem real? When I was ten, I watched Star Wars for the first time, and after that, I ran up the stairs as fast as I can, brown blanket around my shoulders like a cape. Jedi training, you know. 
 
 
 
 When I was thirteen, I read the fifth Harry Potter book in two days. My own wand would be maple with a phoenix core, I decided. When I walked past a mirror, for the first time in a long time I smiled at my frizzy hair rather than averting my eyes. Hermione had hair like that, too. 
 
 
 
 Of course, you say, this happens to everyone, but don ’ t they just grow out of it? Well, I didn ’ t. Even as life and experience taught me that I would never have magical powers or the ability to affect any destiny outside my own, I harbored that dream. It was smaller than when I was a child, quieter, but it was still there. 
 
 
 
 I never told my friends, of course. They would have thought me odd, like I had some kind of psychosis: delusions of grandeur, or multiple personality disorder– maybe both. But I can ’ t believe that I ’ m the only one. Don ’ t we all want our lives to mean a little more? Don ’ t we want our evils to be unambiguous and tangible? 
 
 
 
 He and I had been getting to know each other pretty well, but I still hadn ’ t told him about the other me ’ s, the ones from stories. When we decided to explore the cave, I wasn ’ t expecting anything to happen. This is a cave in the real world, after all. No goblins or anything. 
 
 
 
 But the cavern was special. Before we lived in houses and wrote down our dreams, we lived in these caves, and standing in the entrance I understood where the trope came from. Light is safety, goodness, and the way out. Dark is the unknown, the evil. I ’ ve wanted the world to be like this cave for so long. 
 
 
 
 I didn ’ t know he had taken a picture, but when I saw it, I cried. I hold the light in my outstretched arm. My jeans and cardigan are small, obscure. They are the technical suit of a fighter, the traveling robes of a wanderer. The woman in the picture is beautiful and powerful and she is *me*. 
 
 
 
 “ Babe ”, he asks me, “ are you okay? ” I nod, smiling what I can only hope is a sane and normal smile. “ It ’ s a really pretty picture. Wow. ” He ’ s relieved that the tears aren ’ t out of sadness. “ Want to order takeout? ” The moment is gone, for now. “ Yeah. Takeout. Sure. ” 

