Just a Street

It’s just a street. Cement, stone, and whatever else makes up a street. Or is it more? Doesn’t it mix with your memories from walking down it? All the stories formed as you passed through?

If you think about it, that street holds more significance than you might imagine. It’s seen you in your best and worst moments. And each time you return, it welcomes you, offering pieces of your life with every step.​

Like the time you fell, because you were too busy looking at your friends - you still laugh about it.

Or when you were seven, walking beside your parents after your birthday, a big smile on your face.

The walks with music in your ears, feeling as if the world was in the palm of your hand.

Even the walks you had with that one person, thinking “they were the one”. Now, looking back, it makes you chuckle, “How could I ever possibly think that?”

You can never look at that street the same. It floods you with parts of your life. A collection of moments you’ll never get to relive again. The only way to reach them is by replaying them in your head, but it’s never the same.

That’s what memories do. They tell you so many things, without speaking a word. All those echoes from the past, coming unannounced, leaving as silently as they came, leaving you reaching for something you can’t hold.

And suddenly, it isn’t just a street anymore. ​

But really, was it ever?