In a little, blue house on Maple Boulevard, I grew up. Maples lined the street, and in the fall the leaves clogged the drains. Countless hours of making salads of whirly-gigs and leaves as big as my face took up my summers, and the asphalt saw many cuts and bruises from learning to use my skates and ride my bike. A little white picket fence bordered the front yard, and I'll never forget the giant Maple tree that took up its area.
I'll never forget the year the tree came down. Ice storm of the decade, they said, and I remember daddy calling me out to see the magnificent ice fort nature had created just for me and my step brother. It was a beautiful thing to behold, and a child's delight.
Sometimes I still drive down Maple Boulevard, curious to see how the current tenants have changed it, wondering if my bedroom still has the special treasure hiding spot in the closet floor, or if the yard is as big as I remember it being.
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