These Streets

As I walk down these streets, I wonder about the things that they had seen

I’ve walked down these streets with friends

They’ve probably seen me do that

I’ve walked down these streets alone

They’ve probably seen me do that too

Those days when I made that lone journey home I looked at them and questioned

If they had voices, what would they tell me?

The older ones, the ones worn away, the ones with their blue-gray slate exposed

I think they would have seen the most.

How many families had they seen move into the neighborhood?

What kind of families were they?

Were they a nuclear family with 2.5 kids hoping to have that white picket fence?

Was it a single mom and her children trying to carve out a life?

Was it a young bachelor and his dog striking out into the world for the first time?

Who were they?

If these streets had voices would I hear them talking about the kids who found a love for art in their chalk drawings on them?

Would I hear the stories of furniture on the street from evicted families?

Would I hear the stories of flowers that, despite the odds, bloomed in between the cracks of concrete?

Would I hear the stories of couples walking hand in hand before going up doorsteps for a kiss goodnight?

Would I hear stories of blood staining the concrete as lost men use violence against their own brethren?

If I could stand for a moment, listen with keen ears, and hear the voices of the streets, I think I would hear about the beautiful things they had seen but also the ugly as well.

As I continue walking, I see a new square of concrete being poured in the place of where an old one had been, and I think: I wonder what stories this one will have to tell.

Originally written July 2nd, 2017, when I’d walk home from school and think about the place I grew up in.