A coin is tucked inside a letter on my bookshelf. It’s no ordinary coin, although it measures 1.5 cm long like a common American penny and weighs about the same as well.

The surface is brown and faded with chipped, bumpy edges. No evidence remains of its former bronze brilliance. A darker hue of brown lines its edge like it has been charred. The coin appears delicate from hundreds of years of existence, as though you could scrape away the design with one easy swipe of a nail file. Its surface is dull, and will never be shiny again because its thin, bronze top coat has been worn away with time. On one side lies the goddess Pax, raised out of the coin to emphasize her importance, with “Perfect Peace” inscribed around her in Latin. Although damaged with time, her figure is still visible, along with a large staff held in her hand.  The other side is a bumpy blur, although it once held a glorious, shiny depiction of Constantine I. This side doesn’t even look like a coin; if it was lying in the ground, it could easily be mistaken for a flat, bumpy pebble.           

It has been sitting in various places in my room since March 10^th, 2005. It’s forgotten most of the time. However, this coin is rich in history. It lived before the Twin Towers were attacked. It survived before the Great Depression. It even lived before the Norman Invasion of England in 1066. “How did it end up in your room?” you may wonder.

Here is its story.

Let’s zoom back almost two thousand years to the Roman Empire. During the rule of Constantine the Great, this small bronze coin was made in the 18^th year of his rule, around 324 A.D. Constantine was the first emperor to become a Christian (he thought that God would help him conquer more people) and therefore changed the history of all of Europe for the next thousand years. This coin was around for the beginning of a new kind of world as it passed from hand to hand over the years. It was called a “follis,” which is like our modern day penny, so it most likely passed through the hands of commoners as they went about their days selling fish in the marketplace, buying bread, paying back loans, and losing money in bets.

At some point, it fell into the ground— possibly slipping unnoticed through someone’s fingers. It lay there, squished into the soil, for much longer than it probably expected to, undiscovered for centuries. Countless people walked over it. The dark ages came and went. Kings and Queens rode by and peasants trudged over it. Genghis Khan and the Mongols stormed over it as they invaded. Vikings passed by in their boats. All were unaware of the small piece of history that was waiting to be discovered.

It was only recently that someone happened to look down at the right spot and pick it up. It was found by an archaeologist who was exploring the world from one end to the other.

This archaeologist was Mr. Bill Reilly, who became a middle school teacher several years later. He inspired minds like no one else could and created a passion for learning. His students had the craziest assignments (building life-sized catapults, making episodes of “The Daily Show”, turning school hallways into a museum for the community to visit)— and even those kids who were frequently suspended or hated going to school couldn’t help but look forward to his class all day. This small “follis” snagged a spot in his ancient coin collection, which students year after year observed and passed around while learning about ancient Rome.

I loved Mr. Reilly. What an interesting man he was! And he had fabulous stories from all over the world to share. I spent many hours after school with the coin in my palm, imagining epic battles, creamy togas, and vast empires. For my 12^th birthday, Mr. Reilly gave me the coin. I loved it to pieces. It sat for a while in a white tin with other coins I had been collecting, until one day I realized that the tin just wasn’t its home. It wasn’t supposed to be with other coins. It was too special. So it sits inside the letter that Mr. Reilly gave me on my 12^th birthday and it’s been there ever since- relocating to different spots in my room whenever I clean.

I think what I liked most about having this coin in my possession was that it was a secret. I had my own little piece of ancient Rome and nobody knew that except me (and Mr. Reilly).

My life is kind of like this penny. Although I won’t be around for as long, history is being created around me and I am experiencing “time.” I’m going to experience wonderful and horrible events! One day, what is happening right now will be a story in a young child’s textbook. We’ll be referred to as “Ancient New Yorkers!”  I keep this penny around as a reminder that all time is precious— and that history is still being written each and every day.

I’d like to start off by apologizing for the poor images, the camera on my phone is not the best.

I grew up in Long Island, a land of new-age house-clone developments and stuffy shopping malls. I struggled to keep up with every trend that passed through my middle school peers, from Undeebandz to customized Soffee shorts. I was a chubby girl with thick (and, admittedly, masculine) eyebrows that wanted to fit into the groups of popular skinny girls that sported a different Juicy tracksuit every day. These girls came from families of the upper upper middle class, that could afford buying into brand schemes. My parents just couldn’t keep up, and at the time, I selfishly hated them for it. There was a large concentration of Italian families in my neighborhood, and I felt that despite economic differences, one thing I had in common with these (now, as I see them, materialistic) popular kids was that I am Italian, too. This correlation ties into my “awkward” prepubescent years, a time in my life when I was consumed with entirely wrong values, as well as complete naiveté. I only cared about being Italian for ultimately futile reasons, such as fitting in with the In-Crowd.

For most of my childhood, both of my parents worked full-time in the city. My Dad would bring home all sorts of funny presents for me and my siblings, funny little odds and ends and doo-dads he would sweep up along the sides of tree-lined parks and greasy subways. One of my favorites was a heart sticker with a Beyonce-esque woman proclaiming through a speech bubble, “Put on your big girl panties and DEAL with it!” Another was a (printed) hand-painted portrait of Angelina Jolie, signed by the street artist, which still hangs in my room today. These objects would make me laugh, and then would eventually collect dust somewhere in the house. However, one object holds an explicitly visual memory of my experience, and has been taken care of and semi-worshipped through the years. One evening in August 2005, during the summer between  middle and high school, my dad was struggling to open my front door after coming home from work. I remember coming downstairs in a Metallica t-shirt, brushing my teeth, and seeing Dad struggling not to drop what was in his right hand. Shuffling under his arm were what looked like, through the glass abstracted door, two large brown rectangles. I rushed to the door, still brushing my teeth, and opened it for him. He came staggering inside and rested the two rectangles against the wall. I looked at them blankly, then back up at him, and said, while brushing, “Whaa ah dose?”

He simply put down his keys, and said, out of breath and sweating: “Ellis Island.” He then adjusted his collar, and looking duly ahead, disappeared into his office.

…Right.

I went upstairs, rinsed, Listerined, and went back downstairs to inspect what laid underneath the brown wrapping of these mysterious packages. What I found is one of the coolest primary documents I’ve encountered: a log of a number of passengers sailing from Naples on August 11th, 1920 upon the S.S. Providence. One of the last names from the bottom is Vincenzo Petrosino, my paternal grandfather that arrived in the United States at the age of fourteen. Unfortunately, I never met my grandfather, but this one strip of information on a seemingly mundane and even painfully meticulous travel document is the one splice of information I have on a man that single-handedly started his own fish restaurant in New York City and was able to support a family on this business alone – a business he built from the ground up.

What was communicated through my father’s prideful stories of the “fish business” is that my grandfather was obviously a high roller. However, one particular anecdote that made his memory even more enchanting was the fact that “He came to America with two dollars in his pocket!” What a marvel, starting with two dollars and ending up making a decent living! I must have heard this particular line two hundred times, between family dinners, beach-parties, and communion brunches. I looked at this travel document, and alas, my father came out of his office and pointed out the $2 scrawled upon the paper. I was amazed. My grandpa was someone that came to America and started everything, from the ground up.

I was proud of this fact, and I while I was definitely long past the years of wanting to be Italian just because it was a fad, I still caught myself wondering how I could be so stupid. It goes without saying that being a hard worker is not a primarily “Italian” trait. However, I can’t help but tie my Italian heritage in with my prideful family history. In some way, Grandpa Vincenzo even helped his granddaughter realize where true values really lie.

My object is a pin attached to a panel that reads in script “One step at a time is all it takes to get there.”  It is roughly 4 inches long and 2 inches wide.  The turtle has an amber-colored stone as its shell and little rhinestones for its feet and head; the rhinestone for the head is missing.  As I turned the panel to see the back (something I would rarely do if I wasn’t trying to describe this object in full detail) I noticed that the sides are covered in tape that I used to stop the layers of paper from peeling apart.  The back also has a logo with a picture of a cherub that reads “The Original Guardian Angel” and below it, “Everybody needs one.”

This pin was given to me from my late grandma when I was very young, probably around 6 or 7 years old.  I loved the turtle (as I had an affinity for turtles at the time) and the little inch-by-inch square scene it was attached to.  At that time I played with it, twisting the pin in the back to make the turtle rotate back and forth, as if it were swimming in its tiny seascape.

As I got older, through all of the redecorations and changes made to my room, the pin always stayed with me, in the second drawer of my nightstand.  As I began to love reading I used it as a bookmark many times.  I have never actually worn the turtle as a pin and it has always been attached to its paper.

I love the quote on my pin/bookmark, as it is very motivational to me.  I have always had a hard time accepting that large, daunting tasks can be broken down into simple steps, and that those small steps can accumulate into something great, colossal even.  I have a tendency to get too caught up in details or get overwhelmed by the apparent enormity of certain obstacles or goals, and this serves as a reminder for me to break it down into small, doable steps. 

When my Grandmother died of Lou Gehrig’s disease in 2003, the pin had even more significance to me.  She was the most elegant, blessed, strong person I have ever known.  Knowing that she, a woman who prevailed with grace through such tragedies, believed in me is a constant source of my personal strength and inspiration.  My family members often tell me that I remind them of her and I take that as a great honor.

This odd object that has never actually been used as it was supposed to be is now attached to a book stand on my desk in my dorm room, so I can look at it and remember how to tackle stressful obstacles in my life, and that my grandmas strength, grace, and vitality resonates inside of me every day.

Note: The first picture is of my turtle pin in my collage dorm, next to a picture of my grandmother and I.  The second picture reveals the tattered back of the panel. 

The object I chose to post is a bottle of Propolis.

The bottle is about 9cm/ 3 ½ inches tall. The spout of the bottle is covered by a plastic lid that measures about 2 ½ cm in diameter. There is a circular black sticker on top of the cover that states “AGITE ANTES DE USAR,” which translates to “shake before using.” Another rectangular green and white sticker is attached to the side of the plastic covering. This sticker has the words “QUALITY SEAL,” “CERTIFIED ORGANIC,” “IBD,” “INSTITUTO BIODINAMICO,” “SP 162,” and “This product is inspected and certified by Instituto Biodinamico according to international standards” stated on it. The bottle itself is made out of a thick, amber colored glass. The glass itself has another brown-yellow sticker label that measures 3 ½ cm tall, which goes all the way around the circumference of the bottle. This label indicates that this product was imported from Brazil. The official name for this product as stated on the label seems to be “MN Propolis.” Underneath the name of the product the label states “Composto de Mel com Extracto de Propolis” and “Producto Organico Spray.” This seems to translate into “Product of Mel com, Propolis Extract” and “Organic Product Spray.”  This bottle contains 35ml of propolis and the ingredients include organic propolis extract and distilled water. Finally, the label states that the product is valid from March 2011 to March 2013.

The bottle is about 2/3 full of the propolis extract. When sprayed in the mouth, the propolis has an almost minty, medicinal, slightly sweet, and very strong almost honey-like flavor. The bottle  looks slightly worn. The multiple stickers on the product are fraying slightly at the ends.

According to my parents, propolis has numerous health benefits and can be used to treat many ailments. In our household, we mainly use it to spray in our throats when we are sick or when we show any cold symptoms. Propolis itself is “a resinous substance collected by honeybees from tree buds, used to fill crevices and to seal and varnish honeycombs.” According to the free medical dictionary, propolis is a “compound made by bees by mixing balsams and resin collected from vertain trees with saliva and digestive enzymes. Used for its antioxidant, antiviral, antibacterial, antitumor, and anti-inflammatory properties and to promote the healing of wounds” (Healthline).

To me it’s not the propolis itself that is important, but it is what the propolis signifies that is important. Up until I was in second grade my parents didn’t worry about health foods and eating healthy. However my father suddenly picked up an interest, which was followed by many comical, painful, gross, and frustrating memories for me and my two brothers. One in particular was when my father tried to make a “yummy” healthy snack for his kids. He took organic strawberry yogurt and organic peanut butter, mixed them together, placed them on some homemade bread, and handed it to us. Whenever we (my two brothers and I) are sick, my father force feeds us onion oil and cooked garlic. He also comes up with strange concoctions of apple cider vinegar honey, lemon, water, and various other health foods. I’m sure if it were someone else other than parents who encouraged us to eat health products, then my brothers and I would have listened more. However, because it was our own father telling us we should eat this, not eat that, exercise, and be healthy, it was almost a game for us kids to get away with replacing the health foods with the junkiest foods we could find.

The only strange health product I allow myself to take is this propolis. Not because my father pushed it on me, but because my mother, who never really pushes anything on us as she was always on our side, recommended it. Just as my father has his many home remedies for all kinds of ailments, my mother’s remedy is green tea and propolis. Every semester when the time comes for me to come back to school, my mother always makes sure I have a bottle of propolis equipped with me to face all the ailments of college.

Farlex. (2005). Propolis. The free dictionary. Retrieved February 1, 2013. From http://medical-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/propolis

Healthline. (n.d.). Propolis. Healthline connect to better health. Retrieved February 1, 2013.  From http://www.healthline.com/natstandardcontent/propolis.

(Click image for more photos)

I am a self-proclaimed “dabbler”. I like taking on new projects, hobbies, interests, skills that I could be decently okay at and adding them to my repertoire. Admittedly, I can only teach myself so much and sometimes I will give up, but hey, at least I tried! 

Well anyway, my project for myself during Winter Break of 2012 was to learn how to crochet. I was determined to at the very least make a headband, or something at least slightly more dignified than a string with some knots in it. My friend and former coworker is a crochet aficionado and took me shopping for all of the supplies that I would need. She recommended that I start with a thinner, light-colored yarn and a smaller hook. 

I went to work right away, scouring Youtube for the best tutorial (in case you didn’t know, you can teach yourself ANYTHING on Youtube. Anything.) I single-crocheted (that’s the name of the stitch) a “scarf” for hours upon hours, not getting as far as I wanted with it, but learning from every stitch. I knew I couldn’t pull the yarn too tightly, nor too loosely, and I figured out the best way to unravel the yarn without getting all tangled. Although I do not think this scarf was anything to write home about and was teeming with imperfections, it got me thinking about all of the other combinations I should pursue. 

This brought me to the craft store about a week later. The lush, thick yarn (Wool-Ease Thick and Quick… product placement) was on sale. The rich red, navy, and wheat colors seemed like a great combination to use. I just had to buy it! I knew it would be a very different experience than what I had been going through, but I was up for the challenge. I also bought a Q hook (15.75 mm) which I had heard would work best with yarn of that thickness. 

When I got home I went back on Youtube, looking up new stitches and techniques. I wanted to learn how to change colors and experiment with stitch-type. And so I began to work on this project, vaguely knowing that I wanted it to be really long and wide. I later thought I would make it into an infinity scarf (where the ends are stitched together to make it look like one big loop.) The process took about two weeks to do. The skin on my hands began to get chapped and irritated from the repeated motions, while my joints and muscles became sore from being persistently tense. I distinctly remember laying down on my back at one point, crocheting this monster of scarf and realizing it was taller than me! Probably a good 6+ feet. It got me thinking that this had the potential to be a great blanket and maybe I could make a blanket one day (if I had a mere month to spare.) I also came up with this arbitrary color pattern which came from experimentation and I am ultimately fond of. 

So needless to say, this scarf is a labor of love. It made me appreciate what work must go into other articles of clothing/fabric goods. It is something that I am really proud of and love to wear as a reminder of all the hard work I am capable of doing. Oh, and it keeps me warm. So there’s that, too. 

When I was a child, my mother and I used to attend Sunday mass every week. It was a ritual. She believed that church was a place of peace, forgiveness and most importantly, worship. Although we haven’t attended our church in a few years, we both have become religious in our own ways. So, it wasn’t a surprise to me when she handed me rosary beads before giving me a tight hug; brief, but a feeling no one forgets. “Take these rosary beads,” she said. “Remember God is always with you, and so am I.” I always associate these rosary beads with that moment and today, it still brings tears to my eyes.

The beads together are about a foot long. The rosary is filled with yellow beads down a long metal chain. The separation between the beads from start to finish are about a half centimeter apart, with some variation as you go down the beads. They then become about a centimeter apart in some areas, but return to half a centimeter. As you continue on the chain of bright yellow beads, like a ring of suns attached to one another, the chains meet at an end. The ends are attached to an oval metal piece. On the oval is an engraved figure of the Virgin Mary. As you continue to scan the rosary beads, the metal pieces become one and are hooked to a cross, where Jesus is engraved with arms spread, a depiction of the day of his death. At the end, the rosary beads continue to have variations between one centimeter and a half a centimeter apart.

The beads are sphere-like and soft. Rosary beads come in all different types of materials, but mine seem to be pearls. The cross’ edges are sharp and as I begin to touch it, my thumb slowly elevates with the shape of Jesus’ body. Above the cross, Mary’s figure on the oval is less dominant. The sides of the oval are smooth, and her body creates less elevation as you rub your fingers on top of the oval. When you put the beads in your hand and shake, they create a jingle. It’s not loud or obnoxious, but there’s a clear tune when the beads hit each other. It reminds me of the time when I used to play with my grandmother’s rosary beads, located at the top of her dresser. She didn’t like that very much.

Although the rosary beads stand for a religious symbol, I have modified it to mean so much more. The beads and chain symbolize the connection my mother and I have. As it becomes one, I realize that we are one in the same. She’s my best friend. I find myself praying when times are difficult, and realizing that just like God, my mother is also with me. Although not present in the place where I stand, she’s just a phone call away. She’s proud of me and what I’ve become, but I think I’m more proud of her. It takes courage, determination and love to be who she is.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still religious today. I usually take the rosary beads with me when I need to travel or when I’m afraid. I stick them in my pockets and grab them at my most vulnerable moments. I also pray with them. I usually just fiddle with them or wrap the beads around my hands and pray. I’ll sometimes say a prayer, or just talk to God. Of course, everyone has their own view on religion. But, I find that there’s comfort in knowing there’s a higher power looking over me, or maybe it’s just my mom.

The object I have chosen to discuss is a Victorian needle case. This item was found about ten years ago in a box of old family photos belonging to my mother.

The case measures approximately 3 1/2″ across by 3/4″ thick. It was made from three hexagonal-shaped pieces of a rigid material (cardboard?) covered in burgundy velvet. Two of the pieces are sandwiched together with some type of soft material between, and edged in a strip of black velvet. A feather stitch pattern is embroidered along the edge in silk thread. The case in a closed position is shown in the first photo. On the back, there is a pocket made from black silk. It has a string gathering the top edge, with some type of bead on one side, as shown in the second photo.

The third hexagon is lined in off-white silk which is embroidered with green and pink flowers and the inscription: “Ruth Broadwell 1898” — obviously the signature of the maker. This section is stitched to the first double-hexagon piece along one edge, with three layers of fine wool fabric between the sections to hold needles; there are three needles and one straight pin still secured to the wool on the underside. Originally, there was a narrow black and red ribbon secured to both sections (which has frayed apart) so that the case would only open to the length of the ribbon.

The care in constructing this needle case indicates that it was a very special object; the stitches are nearly invisible, and the materials are fine velvet and silk, rather than muslin or homespun cotton. But by far the most intriguing aspect of the needle case is the small pencil note pinned to the wool swatches: “If I do not come back this is for Vern’s oldest daughter.” Vern is my great-grandfather, Lavern Buck Howe, and his oldest daughter is my grandmother, Nellie Estelle Howe. The fact that Ruth made the effort to bequeath this object to Nellie underscores the fact that this was, indeed, a precious item to her.

When I found the needle case, I was in the midst of a three-year obsessive genealogical search for my ancestry, and was aware that Ruth Broadwell was related in some way to my great-great grandmother, Amanda Lee Howe. When I chose the needle case for the first post assignment, I checked my database and Ruth was not included. I went online to rootsweb.com, and not only ascertained that Amanda and Ruth were sisters, but also discovered their parents and grandparents — and beyond — generations previously unknown to me! My research will continue for the next assignment in two directions: my own genealogy, as well as research into the history of needlework.

This assignment has reignited an interest in my own family history, a passion which has been on the back burner for ten years. In addition, I have decided to focus my BFA thesis on my ancestry/family tree and the significance of needlework as a connection between my foremothers and myself.

One of my objects that I hold close to me is one of my mugs. Although I have several because tea and coffee make up the only beverages I consume (besides water), this mug is particularly special to me. The mug is white and made from ceramic materials and seems to be about six inches tall and four inches wide. It can hold a decent amount of coffee or tea and seems a bit bigger than an average-sized mug.. Running horizontally across the mug there are four music staffs; three of them have only music notes and the fourth one at the very bottom of the mug has words written across the staff instead of music notes. These staffs run around the entire mug thus, making the details impossible not to see. To my current knowledge the music notes do not represent one particular song but just the beauty of music in general. However I have not played them on the piano yet so that may be something I will do in the future. The music is written under the treble or G clef which gives viewers a better idea of how the notes should be played. There is one sharp shown next to the treble cleft which represents the music’s time signature so Westerners (mainly) know that the notes should be played in the G major scale. Thus, when playing the notes out, one should play F sharp instead of F (unless a note is specified sharp within the music). There is also a ¾ in the time signature which represents the note value within the bar. Dating back to my music theory times I believe this signifies that there are three notes per measure and that the quarter note gets the beat. Music theory can be complicated and I doubt that many people would attempt to play the musical notes written on the mug. However, although I believe they are just there to display the importance of music, I think it is interesting to discuss them in deeper detail.

As stated earlier there is written text on my mug and the font is a bolded black cursive type. The text writes: “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord!” then in very small letters it states Psalm 100:1. Clearly, this message narrows down what type of music may be recorded or represented on this mug. Now the viewer can understand that the written notes most likely represent the music to a hymn or a Christian song. Music serves a great deal in Christian services and this message persuades it’s drinkers to perhaps speak to the Lord through music. The message is written at the very bottom of the mug which may even suggest that all these notes in the staff represent the Lord’s music and we should be using his music only to serve Him. When observing the mug upside down I see from this angle that its edges are fading into a light brown around the circular bottom. However the black staff, notes and text are still very visible to the viewer and this mug has been in use for over a year now so that’s pretty great. There is no descriptive label present on the mug despite the Bible verse acknowledgement. Yet I believe my mother purchased this mug for me off of a Christian website online. The mug feels cool to the touch and if one closes his eyes he can feel the lines of the staff when running his thumb up and down of the mug. These lines stand out tremendously and make the message all the more significant. In conclusion, this mug represents my love of tea-time that I spend with my mother, my love for the most important person in my life – my mother, and my love of singing not only for myself but for my faith.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, the first novel in a children’s literary phenomenon inspired by a train ride from Manchester to London, resides in millions and millions of homes across the country and the globe, inspiring young minds to read and write with its wonderful, fantastical tale. My book and I are just a part of the masses, yet its fourteen years of wear mark the 309-page novel as an artifact in my library collection—it similarly outdates nearly all objects I own—and is perhaps my most prized possession.

The book marks a muddled childhood and a certain dream. I remember sitting beside my mother, listening to her read an eclectic collection of stories for a seven-and-a-half-year-old. The Magic Tree House series decorated many near-21st-century family bookshelves. I later learned that educators labeled The Giver as a seventh-grade book. In the summer of 1999, before second grade, Mom came home with this now-aged copy of the Sorcerer’s Stone, saying the children’s book displayed in front of Barnes and Nobles amassed rave reviews. I recognized “Harry Potter” since I saw the Chamber of Secrets in my school library only a few months before. While reading the final chapter, “The Man with Two Faces,” Mom confessed she could not read any further, complaining it was “too long” and had “too many characters” to remember. I finished the book that night on my own. From then on, I read every story, no matter the difficulty, by myself.

Examining the contents of my copy, and searching the Internet for well-known facts about the famous book series, I know what I just described is impossible. On the fourth page, on the other side of the title page, at the very bottom, reads the following: “First Scholastic trade paperback printing, September 1999”: that is when I entered second grade. A quick look on Wikipedia will show that Chamber of Secrets entered the US in June 1999; I doubt my small upper-Westchester elementary school library would receive a children’s book about witches and wizards so quickly before I left for the summer. Even if my memories are somehow a lie, that I fabricated details about some of the most vivid moments of my life, my drive to write exists, and I accredit my near-fifteen-year passion to this little tattered book.

Already, I delved into the appearance of the nearly fifteen-year-old object. The cover and spine display considerably light wear-and-tear, given its age, and the edges are tattered and curled. On the front, a thin line runs between “SORCERER’S” and the bottom hem of Harry’s shirt, matching the several crease lines on the spine. The largest tears are upon the spine; while exposing the first few pages on either side, the curling edges threaten to release all its contents.

On the inside of the front cover, a green Post-It note covers a sticker of a young, short-haired girl in a white nightgown reading a novel, surrounded by copious amounts of blankets and pillows, a window behind providing fair lighting for her literary escape. On the bottom, within a slightly opaque box, reads “Jaime” in bright pink gel ink; a very poor drawing of a heart in the same color ink accompanies the name. In my early elementary-school days, nearly all of my books proudly displayed this label inside their front covers, yet I could not say where you would find these other books. I must have not touched them for years. The Post-it note, a fairly recent addition to the relic, holds some bullet notes for my Classic Juvenile Fantasy Literature final exam. On the other side, random pencil scribbles distract from the “Praise for J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” A tiny pink splotch towards the bottom proves the child filling her name on the opposite page did not wait for the ink to dry.

The yellowed pages, due to time or my father’s cigarette smoke floating around our household, make the book stand out from any other novel or collection on a bookshelf. Open to the beginning, and detached sheets which describe the Dursleys and their very strange day, will fall into your hands. Bend the book; the pages and binding, used to curving in unnatural waves, will give in to your force. Slide your fingers against the sheets–work them like a flip book–and you will find random folds on the top of pages, notation of numerous readings. Good luck trying to keep the first few pages intact.