At the end of the street. . .

I passed them this morning, at the end of their street. Three kids, with backpacks, standing in the cold, I assume waiting on the school bus to arrive. I think they're probably not like me, with the years that separated us - all that society has become. But I suppose it's possible they have similar teenage angst and issues as I did back then. I could have been more like them than I would have imagined, if I could have seen twenty plus years into the future.

For just a moment, as I continued down Biscoe Street, towards the bridge that would lead me to my destination for the day, having spent the night with my parents in my hometown, I allowed myself to . . . glimpse back? To standing at the end of my street, waiting for my bus. I can remember the kids I waited with, can't I? Or can I just remember the sensation of waiting with others, because there were always neighborhood kids. So surely I wasn't waiting on the bus alone. Surely I stood in the cold with the others. At the end of my street.

Twenty seven years, and all that comes with those years, separate me from those three teenage kids. It's an odd juxtaposition for me, seeing them at the end of their street, at the end of what was my street, with all that time between us. I guess twenty seven years and maybe 12 to 15 feet, because I usually stood on the sidewalk just to the North, in front of the brick house.