42 Chestnut Street. That was the place where I spent most of my childhood. I remember its beige exterior, a bland casing which hid the wealth of stories within. I remember the lawn, and how on summer mornings I would wake to the smell of freshly cut grass as my father trimmed the lawn on his days off from work. I remember the living room, where the family would pack themselves in during the holidays and it felt like the sound of chatter could be heard from a mile away. I remember the kitchen, with its compact cooking area where a million homemade meals were cooked, and the small table where a million of those meals were eaten with delight, having tastes which reflected the careful preparation with which they were made. I remember the backyard, where from spring to autumn the sound of a mitt catching a baseball continuously echoed off of the garage. I fear that one day, the house of my youth will be forgotten. But until then, I will remember. I will remember until the house demolished, and the dust from it’s collapse fills the air with regret. I will remember until my descendants and I become nothing more than a loose collection of dirt and microbes. I will remember until the last man on earth falls, and the empire our species has created for itself becomes no more. I will remember. I will not forget.