I still remember the street where I grew up.

It was a wide street dotted with small houses,

A concrete road speckled with spots,

Pieces of gum and blood stains from when we fallen and scraped our knees,

And patches and plates used in lieu of re-pavement.

I can still see the street sign.

It was a tilted forest green sign reading “WEXLER’ in a tall thin white font.

It’d stretch on and on getting gradually darker as the forest began to take it.

At the end lay a short fence separating out little world from the rest,

Where a small highway could be seen through the sycamores and magnolias

It wasn’t extravagant but it was our little strip and on it lived the most colorful people.

They weren’t rich but they were earnest and hardworking.

Teachers and pastors and nurses and laborers.

Life had made them into the kindest people.

They looked out for us and made sure we were taken care of.

There was Mr. Eady the street patriarch, in truth he’d raised us all

There was Mrs. Evans the kindest woman, who’d always wave as we streaked by on our bikes

And Mr. Cal who always bother the young men on the street,

hoping to prepare them for a world they hardly knew.

As the years went on, we’d all grow.

Some would leave the street for new horizons,

Others would be forced out,

And some would pass away leaving the street to the next generations

But those who remained stood watch as guardians

Hoping to maintain the life we’d all come to love.

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