The Parties Ended

I had two childhood homes. The first was on Albion Street and the other was on Marseilles. The former was in the hood, no denying it. We only stayed there for a few years, but I had fun — got into a fight, lost the fight and drew on my dad's truck with a red rock. When my parents decided to move, we moved closer to Grosse Pointe — 5754 Marseilles — a few blocks down from St. John’s hospital where my mom worked night shifts.

For the first few years, It seemed like we had parties every weekend, with jugs, containers and bins filled with jungle juice. I remember my parents were happy. The backyard was always manicured, and the gardens flourished. During those times, my home was warm and energized. Really, there was a haze. Then, something cleared. All the buoyancy was weighed down. The parties stopped. In its place, my parents argued.

These weren’t small arguments hashed out in a room. There was always a scene, which led to my mom either packing up my dad’s clothes, or my dad leaving. Whichever it was, my siblings and I were just there in the background watching the whole thing unsure of our parents’ status. When those arguments started, the parties never came back.