i am running into a new year
and the old years blow back
like a wind
that i catch in my hair
like strong fingers like
all my old promises and
it will be hard to let go
of what i said to myself
about myself
when i was sixteen and
twentysix and thirtysix
even thirtysix but
i am running into a new year
and i beg what i love and
i leave to forgive me
~ Lucille Clifton

Somewhere on St. Vincent Street, there is a house that holds a memory of me.

I dream at night, she walks its halls, trailing her hand along the smooth wooden banister, pushing open the doors that lead into dusty rooms to stand in front of windows and stare outside, hands pressed against the glass as if she were waiting for me, waiting for a rescue that will never come.

Sometimes I dream I am standing outside her window, simply watching silently, as tears slip down her face like silken petals from a rose, after its bloom has begun to fade.

I raise my hand to touch the glass, feeling only the cold beneath my palm. She curves her mouth into a small wistful smile, and steps away.

"You can't change the past." her voice whispers from inside the house. And I know that she knows, that she can never leave. I know, that this house has become her home, the place where body and soul disconnected, leaving one part of the whole behind like a ghostly haunting.

And always in my dream, I just walk away, weaving a silent trail under the tender glow of streetlights towards home, wishing there was something more that I could do, while the word nothing echoes inside my mind.

Every year, I make a promise to bring her flowers. To lay them on the lawn in light of day, yellow roses to bring her the sunshine she cannot feel inside. But only once have I ever gone back again, slowing my car to stand before the house, holding my breath to see who or what might come from inside. Leaving before I can answer my own question. This is what I fear.

And I'm sorry, for the picture of a girl I've never forgotten, who didn't have a chance to become the woman she might have been. The girl who believed she was invincible. The girl who for just one moment in time, was caught in the camera's lens, smiling and posing for a picture. A picture she didn't know would be the last time she'd ever recognize her face.

And so I mark this 8th anniversary, not by flowers but with words, to set this spirit free to soar the night.

Reckless
with Pride,
I walked with confidence
city streets after dark.

Cutting short paths
behind empty buildings,
where even shadows never dared to linger long.

Houses lined up in neat little rows
on a silent street,
where shades were drawn down tight
and doors locked twice against intruders.

Feeling I had reached a place of safety,
no hesitation as I found myself knocking on the door
never noting the darkness of the house.

Admitted and drawn in,
urged to sit and be comfortable.
Placed like a trophy on a shelf,
catered to like a queen
as he urged me to drink
refilling my glass before even I knew it was empty.

Watching me from across the room, he sat silent
studying my movements,
perceiving me as a predator would his prey,

Waiting.

Smoke swirled thick around me,
Distorting the things I thought I knew.
I failed to recognize the deliberateness of his movements,
the web of control he spun about the room.
Ignoring the chills of warning shivering down my spine.

Shifting between sleep and awake,
as he manipulated me into his room,
pressing his body tight against mine
Holding me up against a wall, before
the back of his bed hit me cold.

Taken.

Lying there, silent and still, with no pride left to speak of.
~ Stacey