"The week was incredibly boring, except for when I remembered the key. Even though I knew that there were 161,999,999 locks in New York that it didn't open, I still felt like it opened everything." (pg. 200)
At that moment, Oskar felt bigger and smaller than the world at the same time. I know how it to be so close to something so immeasurably important, and yet because of it's importance feel yourself sliding farther away from it with every step you take. It's a scary feeling, and as a child I can't imagine how intensified the emotions are for him. Oskar has a very unique and yet wonderful courageous attitude, never shameful or afraid to run after what he feels might help him. I envy that ability to speak up so loud for something lost. To love someone you've lost with the same reckless abandon as when they were living is an accomplishment I can only pray I achieve. His ability to remain a child even through the most serious of times gives him an advantage to keep his hopes high enough to continue his journey. I, alas, no longer have the ability to keep the faith of a child, and I fear I will regret it as long as I live.
I chose this picture because it matches with how with the passage makes me feel. Children have faith in making wishes, while adults stamps over the wish-makers with disbelief. I long for the faith of a child; the endurance, courage, and hope it takes to carry through in tough times. I was relieved of that long before my time, and I wish upon a dandelion for it to return.
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