Spruce Drive

There was an orange mud and pebbles road that ran in a boomerang shape across the mountain. It was the kind where when you ride your bike down it, your tires make sounds like you are riding on potato chips, not dirt. Sometimes little seedpods fall from the trees, like fluffy caterpillars with purple feet and white fuzz. Almost like snow in the summer, when they gather around the gutters and driveways. Then the autumn wind would blow them away to make way for the real snow. A grey-green bed lies at the bottom of a ditch by the road. Almost saying, jump here. And it looks so soft too. Once in a while we would get out the hose and make rivers along the road. The dirt glittered when we did that, in an ugly, brown sheen. My mom would come out and yell at us not to stand in the road. I want my street to have my footprints in the gutters, initials carved into the base of some gargantuan tree. I wish that once I move away from here, I will still linger around the ghost parked cars and shattered walkways, a branch broken here, a brick clipped here, an empty driveway.





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