At the End of the

Fourth Word

by Andrea S., Needham, MA As the sun poured down on their backs like a stifling patch of fire, the workers quickly poured the last drop of cement onto our driveway.

"Hey kids, c'mon over and we'll put your handprints into the cement," suggested my loving father. My brother, Rennie, and I placed our chubby little hands into the wet cement, while my father wrote our names, ages and the year - 1987 - beneath our handprints. Rennie was four years old at the time and I was two. As we lifted our tiny hands out of the cool cement, we looked at the (to us) art we had made, and proud smiles lit up our faces.

As the years scurried by, the two sets of dear little handprints survived harsh winters and scorching summers. We were content children, aged twelve and ten, who were not ready for change, or what we were about to be told: "We are moving to Ohio." At the end of the fourth word, I found myself lying on my bed, crying. Picturing what my life would be like away from what I would miss so much: my friends, relatives and my house. As the day drew nearer, I started to think positively about this move and I learned to grin and bear the fact that I would not be living in Canada anymore.

I knew the day of the move would come, and when it did, I held my tears and looked up at the massive truck towering over me, holding all my precious belongings, but none of my memories. The memories that developed in my mind over the years would stay with me forever. I continued to struggle with my tears as I said one last good-bye to my house. I stroked my hand across the little handprints that were so dear to my heart, and would remain that way, in the same exact corner, forever.