Meg Murry came over yesterday. I hadn’t seen her in ten years and I held her tightly, tightly, and we sat down on the couch and she told me about Charles Wallace and the twins and I admired the way numbers wandered the room around her and she admired the words intertwined in an imaginary tapestry around me and we remembered.
We remembered life when children went outside by themselves. When the news only came on at night. When PBS was a ragtag collection of earnest budgetless shows that told children they were worthwhile. When there were bookstores everywhere. We shivered over Mrs. Which and we rode the winged centaur one more time.
We defeated the darkness over Camazotz. And cried when it was time to say goodbye again.
And I wished I could write Meg’s mom, Madeleine L’Engle, and say thank you. For every time I read that book about a smart, funny, brave girl who saved the fucking world and made me feel so much less alone.