The street I grew up on

Peering through the beveled glass of my mahogany door, I see that the mailman has already come. The air, fresh and crisp, gently brushes across my body and carries with it the giggles and laughter from neighbors at the end of the cul-de-sac. The sun peeks through the interlocking, finger-like branches and sunlight scatters and darts in various directions across the yard. Two trees lie on either side of the brick-lined, stone walkway. Two trees in the front yard are fairly standard, and their symmetrical placement as dictated by the Homeowners’ Associations, is repeated down the block. Every house has a grey or black shingled roof. Every house is made of brick. The color of brick varies from a blushing pink, to a steely gray, to clay dirt red. These miniature fortresses line the street on both sides with perfectly manicured shrubs hugging the windows.
A SUV sits in front of every other house. The stickers on the back windows of the cars have changed over time from dictating the various private elementary schools, to now announcing everyone’s college-of-choice. We grew up on this street. The same parents that used to push their children in strollers around the block or watch them draw with sidewalk chalk, now way goodbye to their teenagers as they leave for class in their school uniform or their young adults as they pack up their trunk to the very brim before leaving for college. Everyone is growing up, the leaves continue to change color and fall from the trees, but the air is always crisp, always fresh, and will always smell the same.