Growing up on the street, I liked to play war with my friends, hide behind the trash cans and shout BANG, BANG at the kids from the other block. It was all fun and games until real war broke out.
Our streets were kidnaped by the heavy machines, their engines roaring like angry metallic beasts, slowly grasping momentum, heading to the east. My heart pounded restless upon seeing real soldiers marching to war.
Elders haven’t rejoicing this exciting event like we kids did. Their faces altered with grim thought made them hug us stronger that day and at night my mother was crying at the diner table. I didn’t understood those salty drops and what have provoked them.
Bombing was my best memory, as the whole neighbourhood gathered together in a atomic shelter, played cards all night and laughed more sincerely. While bombs were falling, I was allowed to stay up late, watch couples dance and saw old grudges smoothened with alcohol. It was a miracle of some sorts.
When all that horror passed, our streets were left in ruins. Scorched walls spoke of violence and I think I saw a blood in one of the buildings, but my mother covered my eyes before I could find out.
A year later, our streets were back to its normal shape. Again we played war hiding behind the trash cans. Again we hated the boys from the other block. Again my mother called me for diner.
The only thing different was that there were soldiers sleeping on the sidewalks.
And here are some stories for you.