It is deeply important that I begin this with a clarification: Harry Potter is fiction, and I know that as a fact. I am not one to hunt for plot holes, quibble back and forth about how the magic works, or spend my limited and precious lifespan dissecting a fictional world. I read the books and take them at face value. So please forgive me as I now, apparently, do the exact opposite of everything I’ve just claimed.
You see, yesterday I set out to write a delightfully happy poem. I had a general idea—some metaphors, some concepts, a few promising scraps of phrases. The overall motif was meant to be precious and sweet and sentimental: how, while making potato soup from scratch, I suddenly and overwhelmingly felt love, dedication, and tenderness for my husband. What could possibly go wrong? Why, me, of course.
The final product was a frank portrait of the knots and crevices of marriage. No victors, no villains. Not love, but endurance. My God. I am insufferable....Even my most horny scribbles are unrequited and fatalistic.
I have been happy. I have felt happiness. I have happy memories. I have even felt joyful! Though I will be the first to admit that over the years, as I age, these moments have taken on a sullen quality—bittersweet at best. My joy retroactively darkened by what came after.
So what does all of this have to do with Harry Potter, aside from the fact that several of my happier memories are soundtracked by John Williams? Didn't we all camp out for midnight book releases at Barnes and Noble?
Well, in the books—and the movies too, and presumably the upcoming television series, and whatever reboot follows that—there is a spell called the Patronus Charm, in which you conjure a protective, energetic force that appears as an animal. Everyone gets a different one, and it can even change over time, like a personality test you didn’t ask for. It’s considered advanced magic, yet in Order of the Phoenix, Harry—a literal child with unresolved trauma—teaches a roomful of other children (also probably a bit traumatized) how to do it. And they succeed. Hermione’s is an otter. Ron’s is a dog. Luna’s looks like a rabbit. And so on and so on. If you do it poorly, it isn’t fully formed. It’s just… a blob. Magical, but embarrassing.
So the Patronus Charm must be fairly simple if a bunch of kids are making a zoo in the Room of Requirement. You just need a happy memory.
Now do you see the crux (or horcrux, if you’ll indulge me a silly and unavoidable pun) of why I write?
If my life depended on it—if Harry were yelling my name from across the Ministry of Magic, if a Dementor were breathing down my neck, if a gun were to my head—could I summon a memory happy enough to fuel a Patronus? Could I be happy enough to protect myself?
Again, there is no happy resolution here. Another bittersweet writing. A wispy promise of hope in the future. A goal: to be a little more sweet, a little more joyful, a little brighter this coming year. Maybe—if I really apply myself—to have a splashing, iridescent whale swimming around me. But I will take a blob. At least happy enough to conjure a blob. When my formless, hazy friend emerges from my wand, I have no doubt those pesky, British teens would say something uplifting or funny. Ron: "Funny shape, innit? But it'll work." Luna in her dreamy voice, "Why that's an amoeba!"
My patronus the amoeba.
I love it as if my life depends on it.
I guess it kind of does.
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