When I Cried

I remember the first book that made me cry. I was in junior high, probably seventh grade, and I had discovered a series of fantasy books called The Dragonlance trilogy. Not unlike The Lord of the Rings and other fantasy standbys, it follows a group of unlikely adventurers on a quest to save their world.

The first book had captured my imagination and I had fallen madly in love with the characters as I followed them in their fight against evil. I eagerly devoured the second book, hungry for more tales of my new friends.

Towards the end of the second book, a very central character dies, midway through the quest.

This was totally new to me. In most books I was familiar with, the author did not kill off the main character. Grover did not unexpectedly keel over in "Grover Sleeps Over." Bad things had happened in the "Little House on the prairie" books, but they had always been couched so kindly that they hardly seemed bad at all. Even in my favorite book, "The Secret Garden," it is said that one character, "died in the war," but it was mentioned so much in passing, I hardly gave it a second thought. In my books, my friends were alive and well every time I opened the pages.

Not this time.

I remember it was late at night. I was reading before going to sleep, curled up in my bed, under the covers. The house was quiet and dark, save my bedside reading lamp. As I read the terrible description of my friend's death, and his companions grief, I remember feeling the telltale prick of tears behind my eyes. Before I had finished the chapter, I was quietly balling, grieving right along with them.

I had never experienced anything like it, and I have rarely since. I felt so connected to these fantasy characters that I could not let one of them pass on without a modicum of grief.