What matters to you, and why?
I wake up to the smell of trees and birds chirping near my grandfather's house, early enough to see the sunrise. I get dressed quickly and run downstairs, ready for today's adventure. My grandparents tell me to sit and make me eat breakfast before going out. My grandmother gives me some bread and cake while complaining she did not get enough sleep, and I drink chocolate milk since my mom is not around to tell me to have something healthier. I run across the lawn, hop the fence to the neighbor's house and furiously knock on his door, lacking any sense of privacy, which I suppose is to be expected of a nine-year-old on a mission. Today is the day my friend and I are going to explore the old abandoned house with the mysterious broken windows. We suspect it is haunted by some supernatural entity, and it is our job to investigate.
Spending my weekends at my grandparents' house shaped my wild side. I did not learn how to play with dolls or use an 'Easy-Bake Oven' like all my other girl friends. Instead, I learned how to ride a bike that had wheels almost as big as the span of my arms. I learned how to dig holes in the ground and how to bark back at the dogs on the street. I learned how to build new things by watching my grandfather work in his wood shop. learned to allow my boyish and playful side to come out. I learned the beauty of innocence and the thrill of adventure.
To me, my passion and wonder for the world and everything around me are what matter to me. The old bike that symbolizes my adventures and most treasured memories of my early ages matters to me. The house that sheltered my wondrous and innocent elementary-school aged mind matters to me. All these little details and memories that give shape to my childhood matter to me because they crafted the person I am now. Today, after nearly six years, the weekends are over, the bike is rusty, and the house is sold, but the innocent dreamer child still lives in me, and she will remain here eternally.
I wake up to the smell of trees and birds chirping near my grandfather's house, early enough to see the sunrise. I get dressed quickly and run downstairs, ready for today's adventure. My grandparents tell me to sit and make me eat breakfast before going out. My grandmother gives me some bread and cake while complaining she did not get enough sleep, and I drink chocolate milk since my mom is not around to tell me to have something healthier. I run across the lawn, hop the fence to the neighbor's house and furiously knock on his door, lacking any sense of privacy, which I suppose is to be expected of a nine-year-old on a mission. Today is the day my friend and I are going to explore the old abandoned house with the mysterious broken windows. We suspect it is haunted by some supernatural entity, and it is our job to investigate.
Spending my weekends at my grandparents' house shaped my wild side. I did not learn how to play with dolls or use an 'Easy-Bake Oven' like all my other girl friends. Instead, I learned how to ride a bike that had wheels almost as big as the span of my arms. I learned how to dig holes in the ground and how to bark back at the dogs on the street. I learned how to build new things by watching my grandfather work in his wood shop. learned to allow my boyish and playful side to come out. I learned the beauty of innocence and the thrill of adventure.
To me, my passion and wonder for the world and everything around me are what matter to me. The old bike that symbolizes my adventures and most treasured memories of my early ages matters to me. The house that sheltered my wondrous and innocent elementary-school aged mind matters to me. All these little details and memories that give shape to my childhood matter to me because they crafted the person I am now. Today, after nearly six years, the weekends are over, the bike is rusty, and the house is sold, but the innocent dreamer child still lives in me, and she will remain here eternally.