During my childhood, I grew up in several houses. One of those houses was filled with more memories than any other one. This house was the only one with an upstairs, a garage and a neighborhood my dad was comfortable with us going outside at. This house was on Monessen, a four bedroom home with a creaky floor. One of my favorite memories starts with my blue bike and our mountain-sized hill up the road. It was on a Saturday around noon and my siblings and I finally got the chance to go out without supervision. The moment begins when my brother choosing to ride the scooter as his mode of transportation. We did our normal climb up, then looked down to what looked like our doom. After a few seconds we headed down the hill. The wind flying past my ears and my face gave me the illusion of me going 40 mph. I was carving through the road like a racer hoping to take home first place.
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