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Description
I can't remember the street I grew up on. I used to have the address memorized, the number the street the zip code.

I can't remember. I can't. I want to cry.

I spent half of my life there, braving my first school days, and learning to ride a bike and playing soccer. I grew my own rose garden and planted a bonsai tree. I made a scooter out of old wooden planks, and tied a rope swing to a tall tree branch. It fell down in a storm two nights later. I remember making cookies with my mom, all by ourselves, as a family. I remember baseball games with my Papa. I remember listening to old Neil Young records, and Grateful Dead CDs.

I remember the fighting and the screaming and the sore throats there, too. I remember all the things that suddenly vanished out the window. I can still see my mother painting melancholically, a distant look in her eyes. My favorite dollhouse was taken away by my dad, and was broken in the move. My last remaining rose was spilled out by my mother in a frustrated rage. I remember my squeaky bed, and accidentally leaving a permanent marker on the quilted bedspread. I remember the Spiderman stickers on the walls, leaving gross black residue as I peeled them away. I can still feel the shiny plastic of the planet mobile dangling over my bed. At night, the green orbs would emit a faint eerie light that lulled me to sleep. I had dreams about dinosaurs and truck-driving in that bed. I remember waking up at 8 am on Saturday just to watch funny episodes of Tom and Jerry. I scraped my crayons across the pale pink walls, making childish scenes come alive before my eyes.

I don't want to move on, but it seems I have already.

Goodbye little white house at the end of the street. I don't miss you anymore.

Description
I can't remember the street I grew up on. I used to have the address memorized, the number the street the zip code.

I can't remember. I can't. I want to cry.

I spent half of my life there, braving my first school days, and learning to ride a bike and playing soccer. I grew my own rose garden and planted a bonsai tree. I made a scooter out of old wooden planks, and tied a rope swing to a tall tree branch. It fell down in a storm two nights later. I remember making cookies with my mom, all by ourselves, as a family. I remember baseball games with my Papa. I remember listening to old Neil Young records, and Grateful Dead CDs.

I remember the fighting and the screaming and the sore throats there, too. I remember all the things that suddenly vanished out the window. I can still see my mother painting melancholically, a distant look in her eyes. My favorite dollhouse was taken away by my dad, and was broken in the move. My last remaining rose was spilled out by my mother in a frustrated rage. I remember my squeaky bed, and accidentally leaving a permanent marker on the quilted bedspread. I remember the Spiderman stickers on the walls, leaving gross black residue as I peeled them away. I can still feel the shiny plastic of the planet mobile dangling over my bed. At night, the green orbs would emit a faint eerie light that lulled me to sleep. I had dreams about dinosaurs and truck-driving in that bed. I remember waking up at 8 am on Saturday just to watch funny episodes of Tom and Jerry. I scraped my crayons across the pale pink walls, making childish scenes come alive before my eyes.

I don't want to move on, but it seems I have already.

Goodbye little white house at the end of the street. I don't miss you anymore.