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Sticky Hands

Sticky Hands

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college Essay, example,
college Essay, example,

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Published by: Diomand Alexis Henry on Aug 19, 2013
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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 Sticky Hands As the little bell at the top of the door chimed our arrival, the middle-aged women browsing the store immediately stopped and peered down at us in unison. Claiming the eldest atage fourteen, I steeled myself against their searing stares and guided my reluctant younger sistersinto the upscale boutique. The disapproval was palpable throughout the room. The snobbishshoppers had already deemed by our ages alone that our hands must be dirty and sticky withchildhood, tainting all that we touched. Their glares penetrated through the exterior layers of my bulky winter clothing and began to chip away at my personal defense walls. I faltered, second-guessing my purpose. Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself and fixed the composed expression on my facethat I had patented throughout the last few months in my interactions with concerned adults. My
mind began to drift back to the previous Christmas, when my dad’s guidance had confidently
steered us instead of mine. He would drag my sisters and me to the mall to hunt for gifts for my
mom, even though she always claimed that she didn’t want any presents at all. My sisters and I
would quickly lose interest in the tiresome duty of wading through aisles of cookware, facelotion
, and women’s clothing. We would leave the mall with a couple presents after our chorusof whines finally crushed my dad’s drive to force us along. By Christmas morning, the few gifts
that we bought had magically proliferated into a multitude of colorfully wrapped boxes toppedwith an array of bows. On the bottom of every card, however, the credit was alwaysundeservingly attributed to my sisters and me, even though we warranted only the title of unwilling participants at best. My youngest siste
r’s voice snapped me back to the present reality, initiating the chorus of 
whines that I had partaken in only last year. This year, instead of adding to the cries of boredom,I had to cajole my sisters to continue on, all the while facing the reproachful stares of the judgmental shoppers. Early Christmas morning, I tiptoed down the stairs and approached the twinkling tree,surrounded by neatly wrapped, vibrant boxes adorned with flashy bows. I scattered my crudelycovered packages among the piles and dutifu
lly signed each card with my little sisters’ names,even though they still constituted only unwilling participants at best. Following my dad’s
example, I no longer tried to exclude my undeserving sisters from receiving credit, as I probablywould have selfishly done last year; but instead, I tried to salvage the broken shards left of myfamily, striving to piece us back together. 

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