The Street I Grew Up On

So you turn right, heading straight. You pass a childcare place on the left, where I used to rollerblade on Saturdays and after school because they had a smooth concrete parking lot with slanted driveways. After you pass the second street on the right, continuing straight, mine is the third house on the right. It's one story, red-pinkish brick, with a medium-sized pear tree on the right side which bore little edible fruit, opposite the driveway and garage, which was always messy and a weekend "project," but never got completely cleaned out. The houses around are equally quaint and cheerful, with flowerbeds and small trees and bushes lining the fronts. The street continues and curves to the right, circling with a choice of two streets to turn down, and then you can head out back onto the simple main street from which you turned. Nothing of too great importance, but this is the street I grew up on, knowing the handful of kids that lived on my street and the two surrounding it. The man across the street has too many weenie dogs to count, as he loves them so, and the neighbors next to us have younger children that are too polite for their age. I used to ride my bike around this small, barely-able-to-call-it-a-neighborhood place and it would take minutes. It was a small and quiet street, with the small friendships of a small, but growing town, that will last until we all hit middle school age, and our families start to grow and move, and we lose contact, but remembering the street that we somehow grew up on along the way.