I remember this street...
It's odd to admit but I have never gripped a wheel here before.
No, in the past I was humbled to my feet.

The street is quiet, hushed by the glimmering snow, with as many sparks as a rural sky.
On the corner lays a New England style home, with lit windows - shining in the snow like a Christmas tree.

That house is where I learned of death, where a little boy once lived. His smile was vulnerable and honest - he was unafraid to show his imperfect teeth.

He was destined to bring joy to the earth. And in the short time he had, he proved to be a prodigy of kindness.
Now he lays in a casket - embalmed and as cold as the snow resting against his old window.

Why am I here when little boys with proud smiles are so far gone? I wish we could exchange chance under the street light my old friend. I wish I could  hear you again.