Here's mine. No idea if it was good, but I got in anyway!
As I watched [name's] hands fly over the manuals—sometimes playing three at once while his feet danced across the foot pedals—my eight-year-old self felt the kind of awe that only a child can know.
“Mom, I wanna learn the organ.”
I did not actually want to learn to play organ, as I discovered once lessons began and the torture of practice ruined the magic of the music. Although my failure to learn the instrument discouraged me somewhat, my love for the amazing sounds I heard each week prompted me to find a different way in which to participate.
Keeping sane as the only male in Children’s Choir is difficult. Your voice sounds like a girl’s, the robes look like a dress, and your peers know that singing classical music is not something that boys should do. But every so often Mr. [name]descended from his ivory tower to play for our rehearsals or performances, and I caught a glimpse of the magic that had so entranced me years before.
The legacy of my participation in choir is more than my gaining a rudimentary knowledge of music theory or acquiring the musical taste of a senior citizen. It is an essential part of my identity—the only artistic endeavor in which I have ever felt pride, despite my characteristic paucity of talent. I will always be grateful to [name] for the passion he inspired in an awestruck eight-year old, and for his kindness ever since.
I loved my 250. I'm still bummed that Asha said no.
You might have gotten in trouble for paraphrasing a line that ended in a preposition. Asha's such a stickler she might not let even the Bard get away with that.