Disclaimer: Narnia is not mine.

Yearnings

I put the book down, and glance at the doors. They are slightly open, welcoming, the darkness behind evident in the strip of shadows where the two doors should be joined, touching, locking me out. But they are not - there is a gap there, an opening.

It is not a wardrobe. I know that my closet cannot lead me to Narnia. But in that moment, I feel the shivery thrill of hope welling up from my very bones. It could be - for the only limits in this world are those we place on ourselves.

I hesitate, wanting to stand, wanting to go to the doors, open them - and . . . And what? Why, if Peter and Susan were too old to find Narnia on their own - if all eventually grew too old to return, then certainly I am too old to even discover the wonders they found. But I am young yet - very young.

But the hope is building, into a unescapable joy, and I feel it deep within me, undeniable, and it urges me to my feet. I am not wearing shoes - but no matter. In Narnia, it makes no difference.

My bare feet make no sound on the floor as I cross silently to the wooden doors. I slip my fingers within that opening, delving into the shadows, and I jerk the doors open, excitement coursing through my veins. Light spills into the closet and I blink.

I bend over - so tall that the upper shelf, rather than the racks of clothes, are on eye level. And I push through the layers of jeans, the darkened cotton shirts, reaching out, reaching beyond, pushing my hand in front of me, into -

My fingers fetch up against a solid white wall. My head, following through, is pressed upon by the layers of clothes as I stare at the painted barrier in front of me.

And I curse my folly. Too old - I knew, almost from the moment that I opened the doors I could see glimpses of the wall, peeking out at me from between hangers and garments. What did I think - that at my age, I could ever see magic and wonder? But I'm only eighteen, I tell myself. Not so old.

Yet I feel ancient as I stare at the wall, and know that the way is closed to me. And the hope that I refused to let die with my first tantalizing glimpse of the wall twists inside me, and I feel ill. No - the way is shut, and I cannot enter. I feel so very, very old. But I'm only eighteen.

I take a deep breath, pounding on the wall, and remember seeing this wall, this room, this very house being built, a decade and more ago. I am too old, those memories proclaim me ancient.

I push backward, and the clothes gently sway on their hangers. No evidence now that I ever tried to enter Narnia - no witnesses - no one knows of this venture but myself, and my small dog who is lying on my bed, staring at me, with his sad brown eyes. And I feel tears welling up from the same font that brought hope before. Narnia is lost to me - young as I am, yet too old for magic.