He forgot our four year anniversary! I can’t believe it, all this time and he had forgotten it! At least, I thought he had. I came home from a long day of work that afternoon to a long line of rosy petals starting from the lengthy driveway. Each petal was a different color, showing how much time and effort he had put in this plan. The moment I saw it, a smile appeared on my face. “This must be why he never called to tell me happy anniversary,” I whispered in glee. My long, curly brown hair nearly touched the ground as I leaned down to touch the array of pink, orange, red, and white petals presented perfectly, and placed so delicately onto the smooth concrete walkway. My favorite were the red petals, so as I walked I gently sat each petal into the palm of my olive-toned hand. I wanted each moment of this to be spared. Reaching the door, just before I turned the doorknob to the kitchen.
“Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” my husband purred from the right side of the door. In his hands, two plane tickets with the words “Jamaica” printed on them caught my eyes.
“Oh my!” I weakly gasped, “you did remember!”
“I don’t know how I could forget, we’re going to Jamaica!” He exclaimed, picking me up and taking me into his arms.
“We haven’t got a moment to lose,” I backed away and scurried into the house, packing all the bags that I could before we rushed out of the house and into the car. The car ride was long and a little draining, but it didn’t amount to the bore that this town had caused me for the past twenty years. We reached the airport within what felt like five hours but in reality was only about one. I took a deep breath. Trying to remember if I had forgotten anything, I grabbed my sweet husband’s hand and looked into his eyes. “It’s now or never,” I whispered.
As we reached the inside of the airport, from the corner of my eye I noticed my husband had grabbed a bundle of red flowers and slyly paid for them. “Silly,” I thought to myself.
Finally, after a long time of lines, waiting, and luggage screw-ups we arrived to the gate of our flight. “Honey,” my husband called out.
“Yes?” I turned. He presented me with the flowers. Even though I had seen him buy them and noticed several times that he had tried to hide them from me, the thought of all the work he had put into it all made my heart flutter. I nearly sprinted towards him, jumping into his arms, and planted a giant kiss on his lips. “Thank you, darling,” I breathed. We turned and entered the large metal plane that had big bold letters painted on the side that read “Jamaica.”

As a child my favorite person in the world was my great grandpa, Pappa. His passion for music has always inspired me to pursue my dreams even if I fail. Every weekend my family and several others would go down to my grandparents house and we would have one giant jam session in their living room. I remember I used to retreat to the kitchen to watch cartoons with all the other children but as I got older I appreciated the music a lot more. Soon, I learned enough guitar to be able to play with the pros. Although about a year after that my Pappa was put in a nursing home for having a stroke and died soon after. Just before he died, he told my aunt that he wanted me to have his favorite electric guitar because I didn’t have an electric at the time. At his funeral the beautiful red and orange gradient Washburn electric guitar was handed down to me. I marveled at its beauty for a long time, not daring to touch it. Then one day after a year since his death, I finally picked it up and began picking at it. Usually guitars go out of tune constantly, mostly when the weather changes just a tiny bit. However, that day, it was still in tune. I was surprised, so I asked my dad about it. He brought up the idea that maybe it was my old Pappa tuning in every once in a while. Ever since, I’ve felt as if the guitar brings me closer to him.

My best friend is Madison. She has curly blonde short hair, tan skin, and a peculiar style of maxi skirts and gaudy belts. A few times a week we randomly go eat at Mexican restaurants, the mall, or some stupid festival that’s going on in town. When I’m feeling like crap she brings me my favorite Reese’s Blast from Sonic. We met in gym class in sixth grade and I had heard that she could sing really well. I walked up to her and asked her to sing for me, she had an amazing voice so I thought she was pretty cool. We didn’t actually become good friends until around the end of Freshman year. At that time, my boyfriend had just dumped me and I had a bit of a meltdown during Spanish so she took me to the bathroom and let me vent to her for the rest of the period. I’m sure back then she didn’t care much to hear about my problems which is why I decided that she was a great person. We just recently became really close and she takes me everywhere and she’s always there for me. Our friendship is strong because we’re lonely and nobody else likes us. All of our other friends aren’t as trustworthy and accepting as we are for each other. Also, in our free time we like to go to the park, make songs together, and just jam for fun. Despite her strange style and her gaudy belts, Madison still remains my best friend.

Out of all the events that have taken place in my house, there has been one ongoing even that each person in my house has participated in at one point in time. It all started just before we were about to move from Nacogdoches to White Oak. I had a plushie hamster names Pashmina doll from the show “Hamtaro” laying beside my bed one night. Just before I was going to bed it kind of creeped me out so I picked it up and threw it across the room. The next morning I woke up and found it right where it was before I threw it, next to my bed. As my family and I were making the final drive from Nacogdoches to White Oak, I explained the whole story from the night before to them and everyone just laughed. After about a month of being settled down in our new home, my mom found the doll and set it on my new night stand while I was sleeping. I woke up the next morning and immediately freaked out, causing my mom to burst through my door just so she could laugh at me. For about four years it became an ongoing game in my family to hide Pashmina in odd places until this year. One night as I was getting ready for a football game my mom hid Pashmina in my bag as soon as I was leaving. That night she must have slipped away, or even walked away.