Personal Narrative-Home

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The clanging pipes above my head. The old, musty carpet beneath my feet. The colorful charts full of music notations, all smiling at me blankly. A cold mid-autumn breeze slices through the balmy room, carrying with it droplets of rain from the open door to the outside world. Me, standing in place among the other fourth and fifth graders, bouncing on my toes with anticipation coursing through my veins. Sheet music with simple melodies in our small hands. Children’s murmurs laced with tired apathy, groaning about having to be at school at such an early hour, some starting to fall asleep on their feet. Mr. Knapp at the forefront of the mass of the nine-to-ten year olds, hands up, ready to start conducting when we were ready to sing. And,

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