word of the day - heirloom
WORD OF THE DAY:
heirloom – an article of property included in an inherited estate
Use heirloom in a sentence:
For as long as I can remember, each Christmas morning I’d wake up bright and early, rub the sleep from my eyes, and (my enthusiasm undiminished by the disappointments of previous Christmases) rush downstairs to see what Santa had left in my stocking. I would reach my arm in as far as it would go, hand searching for something, I don’t know, a toy, a piece of candy, and invariably, tucked way down in the toe of the stocking, I’d feel the tell tale cool gritty hardness; biting my quivering lip, I would retrieve the substance from the stocking – again and again, Xmas after Xmas, it was always the same, a single lump of coal. My parents tried to reassure me, the coal wasn’t necessarily an indication that I was a quote-unquote bad person; more likely, they said (the milk mustaches still fresh on their upper lips) it was a kind of metaphor for where I was at, developmentally speaking, as a human being – raw and unformed but full of potential, so it was inexpressibly satisfying when, on this most recent Xmas morning, I emerged from what had once been my parents’ bedroom, eyes surveying, as they had for every one of the last 365 days, the many splendid heirlooms (grandfather clock, big screen TV, an Oriental rug so intricate in its design it could have only been woven by child hands), crossed the room to the mantle, reached deep into the stocking and, feeling something unexpectedly cold, cold as ice—my face suddenly lighting up like a road flare on a moonless night-- pulled out a handful of glittering conflict diamonds.
heirloom – an article of property included in an inherited estate
Use heirloom in a sentence:
For as long as I can remember, each Christmas morning I’d wake up bright and early, rub the sleep from my eyes, and (my enthusiasm undiminished by the disappointments of previous Christmases) rush downstairs to see what Santa had left in my stocking. I would reach my arm in as far as it would go, hand searching for something, I don’t know, a toy, a piece of candy, and invariably, tucked way down in the toe of the stocking, I’d feel the tell tale cool gritty hardness; biting my quivering lip, I would retrieve the substance from the stocking – again and again, Xmas after Xmas, it was always the same, a single lump of coal. My parents tried to reassure me, the coal wasn’t necessarily an indication that I was a quote-unquote bad person; more likely, they said (the milk mustaches still fresh on their upper lips) it was a kind of metaphor for where I was at, developmentally speaking, as a human being – raw and unformed but full of potential, so it was inexpressibly satisfying when, on this most recent Xmas morning, I emerged from what had once been my parents’ bedroom, eyes surveying, as they had for every one of the last 365 days, the many splendid heirlooms (grandfather clock, big screen TV, an Oriental rug so intricate in its design it could have only been woven by child hands), crossed the room to the mantle, reached deep into the stocking and, feeling something unexpectedly cold, cold as ice—my face suddenly lighting up like a road flare on a moonless night-- pulled out a handful of glittering conflict diamonds.
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