My parents moved a few months ago, and that meant I had to come over and decide what to do with some of the stuff I owned that was still at their house. I sorted things into “keep” and “throw away” piles.

One of the things I had to decide on was my Harry Potter books. My parents were surprised I put them in the “throw away” pile. It was hard for a moment, not because of what they were, but because I remember the day my dad came home and surprised me with books 2 and 3. I had read the first book for school, but the first 4 books had already been published by the time I got into it, so my friends were well ahead of me. I was so happy when my dad spontaneously did that. I hadn’t asked for the books, but he knew I wanted them and went out of his way to get them just to surprise me. I felt so loved.

As I held those same books in my hands, 25 years since first receiving them, I took in that loved feeling, but it was twinged with disgust for JK Rowling. Although it pained me, I knew I wouldn’t be reading them again. In my internal monologue, I told myself, "These books served their purpose long ago. It’s okay to let them go and move on."

So into the “throw away” pile they went. The only things worth keeping anymore are the memories and experiences that those books originally opened up to me, and those can’t be tossed out even if I wanted to. Putting the books into that pile felt like visiting a wake - the series is dead to me now, and with this final viewing, I could have closure over it and finally say goodbye.