My street

        My street is like a river carrying on memories, forever. When I went to my window and looked upon the stones on the pavement, I thought how it has changed a lot over time. Old houses became buildings while others continued to be old houses. I watched my old neighbours put their stuff in their cars, and they moved to another place. And new neighbours arrived and asked for information that others had taken away. Maybe to tell others about these histories that they experienced.
My street is a brave river flowing down at all times bringing us terrible news of crimes and conflicts, and lost lovers. Conflicts and discussions involving ex-friends after that, enemies, and old friends again.
My street has changed a lot, and has lost its voice during this time. So many events have occurred there and its windows became a network of old people on their window sill to broadcast them within that small world. In this peculiar network people’s memories were in the past.
My street, sometimes, had good news when damage on the pavement was fixed, and interrupted the flow of clean water running through the street. Or when new lampposts transmitted modernity, and old friends, now grandparents, walked through it with their grandsons. And I saw them telling stories to their kids about places when they pointed to them with their fingers and commented about toys, and first dates as well.
My street is a river where we are the occupants and neighbours for a long time. And now we greet and remind each other of the past when we were kids and enjoyed the joy in the air.
Now, my street has a lot of people while it was so empty before. Parties happened on it. My street is a meeting point for boys and girls who laugh as if they had found gold in a river.
My street is rebellious or dangerous like a river that overflows and carries on people, their goods and their anguishes, and their remembrances.
My street had lovers and songs but nowadays it has only cars and motorcycles where it had only bikes and space. And now the kid’s toys haven’t got space in these new times. It was made of stones and shoes seemed to sing when people rushed by.
My street has hidden memories that only its stones know. Then, memories survive despite traffic and it seems like a giant who sleeps to wait for someone makes a hole in it, and then my street would wake up again.
My street will have memories while we live here. One day, who knows, someone asks for information about that lost chimney like a heritage dedicated to anybody between the buildings. Maybe someone has known that it belonged to a man who lived there in a little house and he enjoyed writing memories and put its last paragraphs in the fireplace, and took the memories of the street forever.

Photo from: Foto de Louis Paulin na Unsplash

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