There is magic in the world. There has to be. What is a well-written story, if not magic? What is the turning of seasons, a dog’s adoration of its master, the last day of school, if not magic? What is the act of living, if not magic?
Let me tell you a story. It is not like other stories. It has no introduction, no climax, and no conclusion. It has no tears, no heroics, no pain. It has no plot, the characters are few, the meaning simple. It consists merely of a moment frozen in time, but that is all it needs.
I can no longer remember when it happened. It might have been a weekend; it might have been summer break. At any rate, it was a sleepover. My friend Alyssa, my other friend Hannah, and I were in Hannah’s basement. I remember piles of covers, popcorn, candy, pillows, the works. But most of all, I remember the laughter. Rolls, hills, mountains of laughter, pouring over the edges and bursting out the seams. That, right there, that laughter, that undiluted happiness, that is why I say there is magic in the world. I’ve spent most of my life wishing, wishing and hoping and dreaming of magic, and yet it had been right in front of me the whole time. Now I hear, “Grow up. There is no such thing as magic,” and I smile and laugh and say, “Yes. Yes, there is.”
There is magic in the world. This, I believe.