"The Street That Raised Me" by Anonymous (Cumberland County)
I never thought I’d leave. Grant Street wasn’t just a road with a name slapped on a sign; it was a piece of me, a place that shaped who I was before I even realized it. The brick sidewalk, worn and uneven, carried the weight of my childhood. Skinned knees from intense games of manhunt, laughter bouncing off the tree trunks lined up down the street, the repeated flicker of sunlight through the leaves. The street wasn’t perfect; some houses were shriveled with age, paint peeling in a slow retreat. But to me, it was a home alive with stories that only those who lived there would ever truly feel and know.
At first glance, Grant Street was ordinary, lined with parked cars, front porches, and a stretch of trees taken with the seasons. Looking closer, you’d see the hidden world within it. The way the street lights flickered on at dusk, the way rain smelled on the hot brick sidewalk on a summer day, mixing with the occasional scent of someone grilling dinner flowing from their window, and the way the cracks in the sidewalk held tiny weeds.
Growing up on Grant Street meant knowing unspoken rules. If you walked by a neighbor putting their groceries away, you stopped to help before heading home. If someone needed to borrow something, such as sugar, a bike pump, or even a chair, they could with no problem. And no matter what, you didn’t ding-dong-ditch the guy living under the blue apartments across the street. Everyone knew that was a bad idea. It meant understanding the rhythm of the neighborhood. The way the voices echoed long past sunset in the summer, the way the streets felt different depending on the time of year. Then there was the way Grant Street sounded: the hum of cicadas in the summer blended with the distant sound of cars zooming past the street, the crunch of dry leaves in the fall kicked up with the whirling winds, the quiet of winter, the fresh snow softening every sound, making the street feel smaller, quieter. And in the spring, the sound of rain tapping the rooftops, pouring down the gutters.
Some of my best memories happened on that street. Like the time my siblings, Chloe, and a few kids from the street above us tried to sell lemonade, even though barely anyone came down our block. We sat in the sun, sipping our supply of lemonade, convinced we’d get rich off a dollar a cup. We kept ourselves entertained. We practiced our best salesperson voices, dramatically waving at passing cars, hoping someone would stop.
Then, out of nowhere, it started raining. One of those weird summer showers where the sun was still shining. The raindrops hit the warm bricks, releasing that fresh, earthy smell I loved so much. We stood there and spotted the rainbow. We watched it stretch across the sky like it had been painted just for us, like some reward for our hard work.
With the few dollars we made, we did what any kid would do. We spent it all on snacks, bags of chips, candy, whatever we could get. Then we climbed up onto the railing outside our house, our feet dangling over the edge, munching away as we talked for hours. About nothing. About everything. The kind of conversations that felt endless, like time stopped and it didn’t exist. Like we’d always be there with sticky fingers and sun-warmed skin, watching the day fade away.
When I think of Grant Street, it was never just the street itself. It’s a collection of places, moments, and sounds that built the world I knew for so long. It’s the basement of the building, where fire alarms were pulled too many times by the other kids who lived there, one being my older sister. It’s the alleyway leading to the parking lot, where the most beautiful tree draped over the cars, showing the seasons in a way a calendar never could. It’s the railings outside my house, where I watched people move in and out, their lives packed into trucks and cars while I stayed. I’d been there long enough to see the cycle repeat itself. Like my home was frozen in time while everything around me was changing.
It’s the raging sound of the pride parade in June shaking the ground, filling the street with music, voices, and pride so loud it felt alive. And it’s the Sea Dogs fireworks bursting over the city, the ones we climbed the brick wall to see, balancing carefully just to catch a glimpse. These memories are proof that I was there, that I took in every corner of that place.
Grant Street was something deeper. It was a lesson in community and belonging. It taught me that home wasn’t just walls and a roof but the spaces in between.
Leaving was strange. Everything looked the same as the last time I walked down Grant Street, but I didn’t feel the same. I felt different. The bricks on the sidewalk were still uneven beneath my feet. Something in me knew all this would just be a story from the past. The thought of living in another home left this bothersome, hollow feeling inside me. No matter how much I tried to picture it, my mind couldn’t accept the change. It wasn’t just the house; it was everything: the memories, the feeling of belonging. When I shut the door for the last time, I knew something inside me had shifted. Nostalgia was my worst enemy. Packing felt like I was stuffing everything I knew into a box. Every familiar sight, every sound, every piece of life I’d built there. It holds on tight, whispering reminders of everything I left behind, making me wonder if I’ll ever find another place that feels like home.
The ANONYMOUS writer of “The Street that Raised Me” is a junior in high school. In her own words, “I wrote about my experiences growing up on my street in Portland, Maine. My story reflects the sounds, sights, and small moments that shaped my childhood and taught me about community and belonging. I enjoy capturing memories through writing and hope my work helps readers feel the power of place”.