FRANK BRYCE, a Muggle
(May 1921-June 1994)
I never believed in wizards.
Magic was silly, childhood stuff.
Perhaps I played along with this as a child,
But it was stomped from me earlier than most.
I left for war when I was still in my teens-
A child, in the eyes of most.
The rain of bombs and shots and bullets
Destroyed any remaining child in me.
I escaped alive by luck, not magic.
I returned from war a hardened man;
Now children annoyed me with their magical games.
I chased them from the garden I attended,
Waving the stick that was meant to aid my bad leg.
I lived a hermit's life, until one day,
I found one had snuck into the abandoned house I watched.
I went in to chase the being out, only to find
That the baby that lay before me was all I had left behind:
Child and wizard- and this time I did not escape.