The most beautiful places are the easiest to forget, but I will not forget you. Yes, I remember where you were. A little community in Georgia called Summerville. I visited you once every several years when I was a child, where you stood there waiting for me. I will not forget the feeling I got as I rode in the back seat of my mom’s pearly white car, I spotted you out of the many rundown houses. I saw your wooden walls masked in cream paint, staring at me through the hand-smudged car window. I will not forget your red tiles on your roof that seemed like it would slide down at any second. Overlapping one another; slowly slipping down towards the edge of the roof. You were so old, but still you stood tall, and for that I will not forget you. Then there was the door, the ashen door. It had a few chips, revealing a cherry wood surface underneath. As my mom opened the door, the slight sent of Pine Sol wafted into my nostrils. I will not forget your lightly painted, pale green walls stretched across the entire room. Inside that room were two twin sized beds with a downy, lace comforter on top. It reminded me of those uncomfortable, bulbous dresses I was forced to wear every Sunday, with the scratchy ruffles on the end of the sleeves. A little television sat in-between the beds on a pasty nightstand. There were other rooms, but I do not remember them. Yet, I will not forget how you protected my great grandma Edna for ninety-one years, while she rocked in her pure white rocking chair. The chair’s rock has ceased; your pale green walls have turned black. Now you’re gone; you died because she left you. Your debris still lies there, coated in dirt. You are gone, but I will not forget you.