Typical American Street

As I walk down the typical American street, I see the sidewalk is lined with white picket fences. About 2 feet tall, some with arrow tips at the top, others just panels of wood, but every house on this typical American street was lined with white picket fences. The fences didn't match one house, yet they managed to match perfectly. They fit into this neighborhood like little kids playing in the cul de sac. I had the perfect song playing in my head. It fit the skies. The clouds partially seperated by what seems like a few inches to us, but in reality could be many miles. I think about these images still. The cars parked on the side of the street. The little kids on their bicycles riding down the trail. The old folks in their rockers on the patio. It played the typical American street. The massive trees casting shadows, creating a canopy above the street. The mailboxes with the typical American last names printed on the side. The Smiths. The Simpons. The Does. Then there was one that stood out. They typical non-American name. Osals. I don't know why it stood out to me, but for some reason, I feel as if I won't forget it. I know I will, but maybe it means something. Something significant. 4 miles away, I find this typical Amercian street on my way back. The same thing sticks out. The white picket fences, the Osals' mailbox, the clouds perfectly spaced, but this time, I am less disgruntled. It was the spirit of the neighborhood that made hopes fly.