Bridge to Terabithia

I read a book today. The whole thing. One I had read when I was a kid and remembered being good, but didn’t remember much about it. I had liked it so much as a kid, I even named my mouse Prince Terrian. The book was Bridge to Terabithia. Weird that it was in the kids section at the library though I didn’t remember it being so kiddy.

I read part in the afternoon before work. At work I got stuck on fry, my least favorite (read most disliked, perhaps only disliked) station. I’m slow on it, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get home to finish reading. It was weird, as I’ve not in recent memory had a thing I so wanted to do that I ached to be doing it. I got home and stayed up late finishing the book. As I approached the end, I had an inkling memory of what happened in the end, facilitated by knowledge that something had to happen to end the book. I didn’t remember exactly what it was at first, but it came to me as it approached. I feared its happening but still wanted to read on. Strangely, though I knew what would happen, I was still hit hard when it happened. Harder than I’ve been hit in a long time. I cried, and hard, all the way through the ending. I hadn’t actually cried in a long time: I don’t even remember the last time full tears rolled down my face. I had thought I had lost all capability of emotion, that practicality and indifference had taken over with the realization that life happens, and occurences good or bad can’t be changed, only dealt with. That prudent stoicism has enveloped me as long as I can remember. But this story touched me and moved me to tears.

Perhaps it is because I have always want somebody to pop in to my life to take me off to Terabithia. No one has. Terabithia seems like the place I always wanted to go, that I wish I had gone to when I was a kid. The friendship and love lost, though common to many stories, felt so much more close because of the realism of the story. All the joy in Jesse’s life was in Leslie and Terabithia. When those were gone, he was left with seemingly nothing of value. Things of joy and pain can appear and disappear so quickly, and when gone leave nothing but a frail memory. Guilt is wrought when run a thought that a seeming small poor and insignificant choice could a hand lend to such a terrible end. It reminded me of a small occurence in another book, Ordinary People, involving a friend of the main character from the therapy he had recieved.

I’ve never been to Terabithia, and perhaps never will. Nor perhaps shall I find such a close bond as between Jesse and Leslie.