Where’s the magic? That wasn’t a question I consciously asked myself as a child, but I was seeking it just the same. It wasn’t a desire to cast spells, but to find a magical world, a place to escape fears. In the days long before Harry Potter and other YA fiction the child that I was wanted to escape forever and that required for magic to be real.
So, I clung to Santa’s existence until a late age, lying awake late into the night wanting some sign he existed. Anything. It wouldn’t be him coming down the chimney (we didn’t have one), so I pinned my hopes on hearing his sleigh landing on the roof.
The noises on the roof never came, of course.
In those days the only television fantasy programming was the annual showing of The Wizard of Oz with its scary witch and flying monkeys. I dearly loved the movie, yet a place close to my heart silently urged Dorothy to not return home. If she’d remain with Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Cowardly Lion then maybe, just maybe, there was hope…
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