I'd like to thank my family for always loving me and supporting me no matter what is going on. I'd also like to thank Ms. Eplin for showing us this project, I've really enjoyed it. I've had an amazing childhood and I have my family to thank for that.

     When I was young in Westmeadow Lane, I lived in a tiny top floor apartment with my parents and older brother. I always laughed and giggled when my dad would spin and twirl me around the room.

     When I was young in Westmeadow Lane, we always took strolls on the beach boardwalks, exploring the shops and the seafood restaurants. The weather was sunny and beautiful, the sun shiny and bright and the sky a pure blue, rippling ocean.

     Later, my brother would always read me a children's book and I would stare at the fun, animated illustrations, squeezing him tightly, trying to pronounce the words. I would always beg him to read a Curious George book. Storytime was my favorite thing to do at the end of the day.

     When I was young in Westmeadow Lane, we drove to my grandparents' house, a unique, beautiful wooden house nestled in the woods. The landscape was majestic, the land scattered with cheerful wildflowers and mighty redwoods, the smell of fresh pine lingering in the air.

     On the way home, I'd sing songs, grinning from ear to ear, or I'd silently read a book I brought, the story coming alive with color and imagination, my concentration focused on the book. And before I knew it, with the rushing of mountains, rolling green hills, and a sky awash with stars and night-time clouds, I'd be home.

     When I was young in Westmeadow Lane, I ran around the house, wrapped around in my favorite pink blanket, squealing with delight as my mom would chase me around the house, scooping me in her arms, tickling me gently.

     Afterward, my brother fed me my dinner, the fork full of rice and beans zooming through the air, a speedy jet, its destination: my stomach. Eventually after dinner, I cupped my tiny hands and my dad would carefully place exactly six gummy bears in my tiny palms.

     When I was young in Westmeadow Lane, my grandparents came over once a week, bringing sweets and money for me and my brother, and also a delicious homemade meal, usually baked pasta drizzled in a meat sauce with a savory taste wrapped around your tongue. We'd talk and laugh over the pasta, in the warm, cozy room, placed in a tiny, friendly neighborhood.