english - A Wooden Box My best friend is a wooden box. I...

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A Wooden Box My best friend is a wooden box. I hope you don’t associate me with the word “loner” simply on the identity of my best friend. Actually, the box, officially known as a violin, talks to me. We often speak to each other, but when we don’t, feel loneliness stalking its way around me. When I first met my violin, I ignored its presence. Once my friends saw the case and asked “What’s there, Andy?” Embarrassed by its ugliness, I casually responded “a wooden box” and quickly changed the subject of the conversation. That black oblong case, with its heavy wooden core, compelled me to stay away; I could not bear the monotonous solid black. Three silver rusty hinges secured the top to the case. Every time I pulled the lid open, a sound like the movement of cartilage in an old man’s joints creeped me. Seriously, the hinges need oil. Despite the violin smelling like a fresh-cut Christmas tree and grandpa’s pat on the back, my desire to avoid the violin remained unchanged. Finally, to please Grandpa, who brought the violin from China, I opened the case. “Put the bow on the violin, and you’ll hear sound come out,” encouraged grandpa.
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This note was uploaded on 03/13/2011 for the course ENGL 10203 taught by Professor Lemon during the Spring '09 term at TCU.

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english - A Wooden Box My best friend is a wooden box. I...

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