A long time ago,when my hair curled in soft rounds and the skin on my hands were smooth and soft, my parents would take me to Papa's house. My parents called it a house, but I believed differently.

The walls of my own house were made of stone, painted colourfully. We had four windows, with real glass inbetween the wooden panes. But at Papa's house, the walls were made of packed dirt, and the windows were open slits cut into the mud bricks. I remember trying to make a hand print in the wall next to the door, I was sure that if I held my hand there long enough the mud would twist into the form of my little star shaped hand.



The End

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