Every Wednesday, on the quiet street of Pembrooke, an energetic, white-coated puppy ran with his owner in tow. Barely keeping a hold of the red leash, with his mangled and worn-out shoes, the owner would run with all his might. The white-coated puppy passed by the creaking and sagging porch of my aged blue home, where I sat in the chair that would rock to the music of the breeze.  

As the pink and orange hues of the sunset emerged, the owner would return with his dog in tow. The signal of the sun’s night and the moon’s morning always brought the now brown dog, caked in mud, and the tired owner, with droplets of sweat falling from his face, back home. As the once cool breeze turned into an ice-cold wind and the sun left the sky, the only evidence of the dog and owner’s presence were the small patches of brown mud from the paws of the worn-out dog and the treads of the man’s worn-out shoes. 

As I aged on and time moved forward, the once quiet street of Pembrooke began to shed its stillness, and the sounds of tiny footsteps and laughter began to fill the street. The paint of my blue house faded away and the joints in my body started to creak alongside my porch. The puppy that had once ran with his owner in tow, through the quiet street of Pembrooke, aged; the only evidence of his acquired years was his slower pace. 

Eventually, the slow walks of the owner and the aged, white dog, with his now faded leash, came to an end. Only the owner, with his worn-out shoes that were clean of mud, passed by my home, through the laughter and smiles of children and families, with the faded red leash in his pocket.