Written in Stone


When you’re young, you are not fully aware of the impact people have in your life. The importance of relationships doesn’t really set in until you are older, so looking back I can say I appreciate my dad very much. Energetic and wild as I was, my dad was always there to talk with me and listen to my antics. Memories made that have no specific relevance, but would leave me with the feeling of safety and security. While on a family trip, my dad and I stayed up late on our own. On the balcony of the hotel, we watched the planes from an airport take off and land. Sitting in the dark, making up stories of where the planes are coming from and going. After school we would every once in a while play frisbee out in the field in front of our house. Tossing back and forth, he’d ask me about school while I went off to chase the frisbee he threw. The feeling of being home doesn’t resonate with a place, but with a person. Looking back on the feeling, it makes me realize the kind of person I want to be. Someone comforting and fun, someone who can make someone else feel like they are home.

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Growing up, being self conscious stops kids from doing a lot of fun activities. I remember plenty of times I opted out of participating in activities because I felt I looked stupid or silly. 

“Well come on, it’s just dancing. We can do it real quick and you’ll have fun!” said my older sister. I shook my head and crossed my arms, I tried to ignore her as I stared into my plate of party food. 

“Ok well, I’m going to go dance with some friends, then I’ll come back for you”. I watched her walk her way onto the loud dance floor and talk to some more girls her age. I looked at my shoes, the first heels I had ever worn, they were for a wedding.  My sister’s best friend walked around with her big white gown on, talking with the guests that had come to see her. Her dress was beautiful. Just as I was watching her, my sister came back to the table.

“Alright! Your turn!” She grabbed my hands and pulled me onto the dance floor. I told her I would only dance for a short while to make her happy. I felt my face flush warm as I clumsily tried to move my feet. My sister grabbed my hands and spun me around, and we danced together. 

I had so much fun that after we sat back down, I begged and begged her to take me dancing again and again.

“Comon please! Let’s go again!” I pleaded. She sat slumped and out of breath,

“Whew! Give me a moment to breathe. But also, I told you so!”

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Image : Made-In-China


I have a dog now, named Ollie. He is the sweetest boy, and loves playing with other people and dogs. He dances around when bored and listens to what you say very closely, as if he understands every word coming from your mouth. Before we had Ollie, and when I was younger, my household had another family dog. Her name was Dora. Dora was just as loving and spectacular. She didn’t care for other dogs but loved playing with our cats and other people. I remember her slobbering kisses and her begging to play ball with us. I also remember the night she got sick.

I had spent the night up with my dad, it was no doubt the weekend, we talked and talked until we got tired. But one thing we had noticed was that Dora had been acting strange. She had been acting sluggish all day and hadn’t eaten at all either. My dad had her resting on her dog bed, with her favorite toy nearby. She seemed to cough and sputter, like a car coming to a sudden stop.

“Well why don’t you come over and pet her? She’s not feeling too well right now, so it might make her feel better” says my dad. I hesitated and just watched as she rasped sporadically. I was scared. I didn’t want to acknowledge that she was sick, I wanted to go to bed and see her better in the morning. So, I shook my head no.

“She’s gonna be ok, right?” I asked. My dad nodded his head,

“Of course”

“You promise?”

“I promise”, he reassured. I trusted him and let him lead me up the stairs to bed. I remember going into a restless sleep, trying to assure myself that Dora would be all right in the morning. In the morning my dad had only told me the horrible news. Last night she passed away. She was actually brought to the vet, and put down there to have a painless death. I sat and cried. I went to school with a face all puffy and red, and all I could think about was how I didn’t even say goodbye.

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My Own Room

I fought and bickered with my younger sister all the time. Whose turn is it to play on the computer and which toy belongs to who. If I wanted anything, is was to have my own room. As the older sibling I was possessive over my things, and hated her touching anything that was mine. I begged my parents for a year, pleading with them for my own room. After they finally said yes, I sorted out what objects belonged to who, and prepared to rearrange my brand new room. I accounted for everything, all the furniture and space I would use. One thing I did not account for was the still, quiet atmosphere at night, and the absent snoring that used to echo off the barren walls.

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I lazily opened my eyes from the back of the car as an acapella part of the song started playing. I could hardly hear the music with the windows rolled down and the air rushing through, but I awoke just enough to ask my dad a question.

“What song is this?”

“Bohemian Rhapsody, very famous, you’ve probably heard it before”

I nodded my head and went back to sleep. The road trip we were on had introduced me to the first little bit of music I loved listening to. I listened to Queen all the time when we made it back home. Not too long after I fell in love with the idea of playing music and different instruments. In third grade I chose the violin. For two years I learned sheet music and practiced when I could. I enjoyed playing music onstage with my other classmates. Briefly over the summer I played piano, but quickly lost interest because of the group lessons we had. In middle school, there was a class for guitar. I had barely made it in. I was too nervous to ask to join so late so my dad had done it for me. 

“There was one last spot left and you got it!” I played guitar for a year then a while afterwards started taking personal singing lessons. I couldn’t last very long without having some sort of music to practice. I did vocal lessons almost all of my eighth grade year, then in high school joined choir. I just couldn’t make up my mind. Each time I was introduced to a new instrument I fell in love all over again, only to have a different one catch my attention at another time. Now, I play piano. I’ve had to re-learn how to read sheet music and practice timing. And again I am in love.

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