Where the Sidewalk Ends

Nothing makes me want to be a kid again like Shel Silverstein. It takes me back to Mrs. Crane's third grade class, complete with Pippy Longstocking and Robert Frost . That was back when "playing beautyshop" during reading hour was our naughtiest form of rebellion, and my biggest fear was having to play softball during P.E. I never tired of reading, and would do nearly anything to get out of writing in cursive-- or at least to get Caroline to write it for me. Even though I wish life could be that sweet and simple now, I know that in 10 years I'll look back at my life this very moment when my main concern is studying for the LSAT (and figuring out what to write in my blog) and think the exact same thing. 



There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins,

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

For the children, they mark, and the children, they know

The place where the sidewalk ends.

Shel Silverstein