After finishing my last day of school before the Christmas break, I leapt off the bus and darted home. I smelled smoke and saw three fire trucks parked at the curb. My mom was standing on the sidewalk, tears rolling down her face.
On Christmas morning, my mom, dad, older brother, sister, and I were crammed into a shabby hotel room. I tore the wrapping paper off my sole present, a pocketknife with a spalted maple handle. Years have passed, and I’m in my new bedroom, pocketknife in hand, carving wooden figurines, pendants, and ornaments: gifts for my family.
On Christmas morning, my mom, dad, older brother, sister, and I were crammed into a shabby hotel room. I tore the wrapping paper off my sole present, a pocketknife with a spalted maple handle. Years have passed, and I’m in my new bedroom, pocketknife in hand, carving wooden figurines, pendants, and ornaments: gifts for my family.
