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Personal Narrative

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My guilt was trapped behind my heart, knocking and pinching at the organ to open up and let it free. But I found a secret route. It could leave without anyone knowing it was even there. It was the end of fall. I sat on the back porch with a blanket across my lap and the newest James Patterson. I examined the leaves that had fallen into tiny piles in the backyard. I remembered when Paul and Kat would rake them into bigger piles when they were younger. Kat would run from the trampoline that was no longer in our backyard to the thick, colorful pile and flop into the center. I always watched from the same spot on the porch, completely entertained from hearing her laughter and seeing her body shake with joy. “Julie,” Paul …show more content…

On the outside I'd appear as Julie. A mother. A wife. A gentle and decent person. On the inside I would be nurturing a slippery, constant joy that moved through me even when I slept. The house sat on the market with no showings all winter long, though. Which meant I was vacuuming when I didn’t need to, placing things in the discard pile that shouldn’t have been there and repeating these things like a catchy pop song that was always playing in my head. Come spring, I turned my attention to research. I looked for a different real estate agent, one who took better photos, and I admit, was better looking. I discovered different color schemes that would spice up boring living rooms for showings and learned that we should hide the artwork that hung on our walls. It wasn't good to have your personal taste stamped everywhere. On a Monday morning after Paul had left for work, I made my true discovery. I found the article during a Google search: The Real Secret to Selling Your Home. It was about Saint Joseph. If you purchase him in a mini statue form and follow the directions that come with it, your house will sell soon after. I wasn’t convinced until I read the comments at the bottom of the …show more content…

“This is just ridiculous.” “Well, it was a gift!” “From who?” “From Diane.” Paul handed the statue back to me and I set him on the windowsill again. “When did you talk to her?” “Last week.” “Did they want to get together or something?” “No, just catching up.” “So then she sent you this guy?” I shrugged. “I guess it's a Catholic thing.” That sufficed. Paul walked away and turned his attention to something other than me. That night, after Paul had gone to bed, I went outside, found a shovel in the garage and dug a hole by the FOR SALE sign. I put Saint Joseph headfirst in the hole, got down on my hands and knees and pushed dirt over him. I stayed in the dirt and bowed my head, folded my hands and whispered to the plastic statue that was waiting to hear what I had to say. I kept it simple. “I’m sorry for lying, but please sell this house. Please, please sell this house.” I was cleaning out a storage closet filled with Kat's old dance costumes in the basement when Paul plowed down the

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