I had just turned 5 years old. 403 Sycamore Road was new to me and I wasn't even of age to have a clue as to what an address was or what having a new home meant. I was on my knees and my chin was resting on my tiny clasped hands that were resting on the window sill as if I were praying. It was the window sill of the large window that overlooked our new front yard, and that could be divided into four seperate panes because it was already marked off that way. This window is a symbol in a whole other story clad in several memories.
My small 5 year old frame was on its knees. My eyes took in the autumn atomosphere of the world outside this yellow house. The sun was hanging in the west and the buses had collected their students from the lanes of their elementary schools. A yellow school bus drove up until it found itself at the intersection of Slichter and Syacamore. The black stenciled numbers read 2, 5 as in 25 though they were foreign digits to a 5 year old. The words were also nonsensical to my eyes like a lost and ancient language. The words read Governor Mifflin. The bus's personal stop sign swung out and a number of kids, from a generation I might have met or might have not, rushed out. I don't remember their faces I can only remember waiting and wishing for my first day of school to come.
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