Remember

I remember the girl who used to live here. I remember her fear. I remember her laugh. But when I walk these halls there is no sign of her. Twenty years later, in the bathroom half way down the hall, still hangs the child size toothbrush holders. The clay animal figures now hang behind a gathering of electric razors and aftershave. But there are only three. The fourth, broken years ago.

I remember the teenager who used to live here. I remember her faith. I remember her pain.
But when I walk down these stairs, there is no sign of her. The basement that held daylight at bay, now only clings to the past. A mixture of dust and florescent light rests on the blue shag carpet. The silence hangs just above the collection of video games.

I remember the young woman who used to live here. I remember her dreams. I remember her nightmares. But when I walk these streets, there is no sign of her. The small town has pushed at its boundaries, adding the Super Wal-mart to the north and the new strip mall to the south. But the limitations still linger in the side streets and mind sets.

I remember that girl. I remember her search for truth, I remember her strength. And I remember the day you lost control of her.