Essays, Summer 2008

Hands

by Tessa Joy Greenwall

AS AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD I was extremely excited to have a room of my own. But it was not like other rooms. It was an attic. Twenty-foot vaulted ceilings, exposed wooden beams, spiderwebs, protruding nails, hardwood floors, and a column of brick created an exciting atmosphere. But to make my room even more amazing, my dad [...]

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