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WEEPING STREET

by Peter G.

Our street is not an ordinary street. For some reason it is different. For one thing, it has no name--that we know of, that is. To get onto our street, you have to go through two willow trees, sort of like gates. And then you step onto a cobblestone street. On our street there are pink towers probably all built by the same architect. Some have chimneys and some have special doors. Everything seems to have a meaning on our street.

There is even an old boarded tower near the old lighthouse. I don’t know why the lighthouse is there because we don’t have any water near us. But maybe we once did because the street still floods. That’s probably why the towers are built so high.

There’s a walkway leading to the old boarded tower. The walkway is covered in fog that never goes away. Otherwise the old boarded tower was pretty much like the rest of the towers on our street just that something peculiarly made this tower stand out more than the others. It may have looked like one of the smallest unkempt towers on our street, but it really was the most meaningful.

I vaguely remember a very old ill woman once living in that tower. She would walk to the lighthouse and try to open its door, then walk back to her old tower every day. Now without her, her tower is ghost-like. It was like she belonged with that tower.

Now even a bicycle is rare on our street. Some days the street gets so foggy that the only thing I can see is the beam of light from the lighthouse.

One foggy day the beam from the lighthouse circled around and around. This time it went farther and hit the old tower as if it were connecting the two.

The street was quiet. All the shutters were closed. No people were talking or walking on the street. I knew that something big was about to happen. I waited.

That night there was a big storm. In the morning I went down- stairs. The front door was hanging off its hinge. I walked out of the door and that’s when I saw the boards. Those boards looked familiar.

Then I noticed the old tower. It did not have boards blocking the doorway any more. I was so curious. Now I could walk right inside. So I did.

I saw yellow wallpaper, half off. Then I noticed an old tapestry hanging too high. As I was looking up, I tripped over a box. It took me a moment to figure out what had happened. There I was sitting on the floor in the old no-longer boarded tower on our street, looking at a box. I was so curious (I would never have done this otherwise) but I tore open that box.

Inside was a neatly folded piece of paper. I unfolded the paper and saw an old map of our street but our street looked different. The lighthouse was right next to water. Also on the map, there was a forest of weeping willows. In the forest were some trucks. I looked closer. I saw stick figures with axes in their hands chopping down the willow trees. I looked back to see if there was anything more. I saw a truck with trees tied onto the top of it. On the water was a canoe ready to come over. It had the same wood from the weeping willows on it. I looked at our street on the map and I saw

the tower which I was now sitting in, looking different. It looked new.

I found one more thing in the old tower that day. It was a piece of willow bark that said “S-T-R-E-E-T.” I tucked this into my pocket. I don’t know why, but I just liked the way it looked. It seemed incomplete.

I walked to the lighthouse like I always did when I had thoughts. But instead of a locked door like the old woman always found, this time I found the storm had knocked the lighthouse door onto its hinges. So I walked in.

On the walls instead of wallpaper or paint there were drawings. The drawings were the same ones that I had seen on the map in the old tower, but just much bigger. On the wall, at the entrance of our street, between the two weeping willows like gates, I saw a sign that said “WEEPING STREET.”

While I was looking up, I tripped. I looked down and saw a box. Oh, not this again, I thought, and opened it. Inside I found something better than a map. I found another piece of willow bark with a carving on it saying, “W-E-E-P-I-N-G.” It seemed to have the same print as was on the sign on the wall.

Meanwhile, I was fiddling with the bark in my pocket. I got a splinter that made me pull the bark out of my pocket. Before I could examine my splinter, I saw the bark that said “S-T-R-E-E-T” and it was exactly the same handwriting as the one that said “W-E-E-P-I-N-G.” The two pieces of willow bark belonged together!

I hung them around one of the branches of the weeping willows that stood like gates at the entrance of our street. That way everyone would know that our street was called Weeping Street. And in the end, all the villages and towns around us might turn into busy cities but our street would remain peaceful, quiet, and green, I hoped. And, most importantly, even with a name, Weeping Street would stay full of towers and mysteries.

Peter is in the fourth grade. He enjoys playing piano and writing.