Neighborhood Streets

Two feet planted firmly on the concrete porch steps. A light winter's breeze gently gliding through a wisp of honey-blonde hair. Faintly, the sound of a lawn mower resounds, and the smell of freshly cut grass tickles the noses of familiar strangers that roam the neighborhood streets. The sun shines through the branches of a lonesome tree, exposing just enough light to catch the beauty of its glistening leaves. Has spring already begun?

A pair of blue jeans, vibrant in color but frayed at the seams. Glancing down at them, she realizes how similar they are to each other. She wasn't new anymore; she was worn, used, slightly torn in such a way that could never be sewn back together again. Cautiously, her eyes creep forward until they reach her toes peeking out from the sandals her grandmother had bought two years before. Santa Monica Promenade, she remembers. She gazes curiously at her toenails, naked in the absence of the sparkly pink polish she had carelessly abandoned around the age of ten. It made her feel grown up, she remembers. She had tried so hard to be.

The air lingers with the bittersweet taste of nostalgia. Everything about her life made her sentimental; her house, her street, the stop sign around the corner, her neighbor's tire swing that still hung from the tree in their front yard. For a moment, she wonders what it feels like to be an innocent. Why did I want this? She asks herself. Why did it have to go away?

We search our whole lives to find an experience.
But the journey was the experience.
And now we can never go back.