400 Bement Avenue
As I carried another box of items from my childhood home into my parents’ car, I noticed my parents standing in the driveway hugging each other. I saw a lifetime flash between them with one glance into each other’s eyes. Thirty years. Two newlyweds moving into their first house in Staten Island, NY. It was an old fixer upper, a dream after living in a tiny studio apartment in Manhattan with a one-year-old. A home where they would raise their son, followed a year and a half later with the addition of a daughter. It was a return home for my mother, who grew up in another nearby neighborhood, and a new beginning for my dad, who moved to New York from Boston. When my mom took my dad to his first St. Patrick’s Day parade up the block from the house, my dad marveled at all the festive neighborhood parties on lawns, everyone decked out in green, waving hello. My dad grew up as a shy kid who had to move and start over constantly. Now, he would be able to really enjoy being part of a neighborhood long term and give my brother and me the stability he had craved.
The old two-story house had an upstairs tenant at first, and years later would eventually be renovated as we expanded into the upstairs, too. When the staircase was knocked down, they found a miniature tea set along with other knick-knacks. The floors were insulated with old newspapers. My brother and I went from sharing a room to having our own bedrooms upstairs, and my parents turned the attic into their room.
The backyard was our own secret oasis. A yard full of flowers to tend, leaves to rake (and then jump into), trees to climb, a patio and pathway my parents poured their sweat into as they built it one brick at a time. A place where our big imaginations could run wild, escaping bad guys, starring in our own Olympic events, adventuring across a jungle, performing for an imaginary audience. There were skinned knees, pickup basketball games, fireflies, and heart to hearts. Birthday parties, summer barbeques, graduations, and retirement celebrations. I wondered if my parents thought of all of this in that moment in the driveway, as they packed up for their next adventure: Raleigh, North Carolina, where my mom could be closer to her sister and appreciate the warm weather and lower cost of living. My mom would finally be able to enjoy retirement alongside my dad. The end of an era but also the beginning. New places to travel, new friends to make, more time together without the stress of their jobs.
This house was the place where I took my first steps and my first stumbles, cried after my first heartbreak, where I learned boundaries and trust, and the consequences of violating them. There was the bathroom window where my dad locked my brother out after he tried to sneak back in late at night and the secret spare key spot I needed after the many times I locked myself out.
I can picture the living room with the unfinished wall we knocked down to create more space, the place where we threw parties when my parents were out of town, rounds of beer pong with a soundtrack of loud 2000s hip-hop. Months later, my parents might find a mysterious ping pong ball or a broken chair. “What is this?” they’d wonder (or perhaps pretend to wonder.) My brother and I would exchange a worried but bemused look, followed by feigned cluelessness.
The house was the site of many living room performances–just one more choreographed scarf dance before my friends leave, maybe a sleepover? Sometimes there was fighting, slammed doors, yelling. But mostly there was laughter. Deep conversations about politics, the world, our futures. Dancing and terrible singing. Togetherness. Extended family gatherings for any and every holiday–Thanksgiving dinners, Christmas parties, Mother’s Day and Father’s Day barbeques, St. Patrick’s Day parties with Irish dancing and my dad’s famous Irish coffee. I loved the tradition of baking holiday cookies with my mom, the smell of sugar cookies and evergreen, twinkly lights and Santas all around.
The concrete at the foot of the gravel driveway was where I knocked out a tooth. There was a closet stacked with board games and shelves of worn books. The roof outside my brother’s room where I used to climb and watch the world go by after he moved out. Secret forts under the staircase, pencil marks showing our growth in height along one wall over the years. From the front windows, you could see through the yards of the houses across the street to my childhood best friend’s house. The kitchen counter where my dad would pull up a stool to eat his late-night snack, listening to the radio or reading. The smell of freshly ground coffee in the morning, National Public Radio in the background, my mom returning from a morning jog, teasing us for just starting our day.
Our home was a second home to many of my brother’s friends and my friends. Kids flowed in and out of our side door, up the driveway to the basketball hoop, into the yard to chat with my parents. Our guest room and bedrooms hosted family and friends for months at a time. We even threw a wedding for one of my college roommates in the yard a few months before my parents moved. The yard was decked out one last time, transformed into a heavenly oasis, clouds of white tulle dotted with bright yellow sunflowers, mismatched lawn chair seats, and a makeshift altar of flowerpots. The beginning of a new life for my friend, and a last hurrah for my childhood home.
This home was the place where I learned what love truly was–showing up even when you’re mad, apologizing when you’ve messed up, repairing, and reconnecting. The couch where I watched my dad read to my mom when she was sick, heard the two of them having intellectual debates, saw them doing crossword puzzles together, holding hands. I would note surprise flowers on the counter from my dad for my mom, and sometimes for me, too. I would grow to accept nothing less. I always knew that no matter what, I could return to this safe place of unconditional love and acceptance.
The day my parents officially moved, I cried. After a tearful goodbye, I took my dog Chip to the park and watched him happily frolic, prancing through a field with unbridled joy. All he knew was here and now, and his energy was infectious. I couldn’t help but smile. I was so thankful to have him by my side in this new phase of my life. Usually, I’m stuck in my head, in a loop of overthinking, past nostalgia, and future anxiety, but Chip reminds me to be present and appreciative.
When I had to go back to the house to check in on things before the buyer moved in, I always brought Chip. I hated the eerie stillness of the house, and it broke my heart to watch Chip run excitedly up the driveway and into the house, searching for my parents who were no longer there. I missed enjoying time in the yard with my dog. Most of all, I missed my parents. I missed laughing with my mom, enthusiastically talking about anything and everything, and slow, quiet conversations with my dad over coffee. My mom assured me that no matter where she was, she was always with me. As I walked through the house one last time, I gently touched the Chinese good luck knot we left behind for the new family moving in. I said goodbye to the house and thanked it for all it held over the years.
For a while, I couldn’t even drive up that block. I hated seeing a different car in the driveway, the dead flowers and overgrown weeds in the front yard. I return here often in my dreams. My brother had left for another country years earlier, and I had left a few times but always came back to Staten Island. Back home. Where was home now? I wasn’t sure. On the one hand, I knew this was an ideal way to say goodbye. My parents actively chose this decision, they were healthy, and they were ready to move on. Yet, I was surprised at the overwhelming sadness I felt. I’ve always had trouble letting go–a sensitive child who turned into a sensitive adult.
My mom always wanted to live somewhere warmer, and my dad is always along for the ride. I guess I just thought I would be the one to leave, and I that could always return. But here I was, the last of my family, left behind. I have now become the official family representative, checking in with distant family members, attending birthdays, funerals, etc. I’m lucky that I have such happy memories from my childhood that saying goodbye to my home was hard, and that my close relationship with my parents meant I would miss them as they moved a long drive or short plane ride away. It was a new beginning for my parents, and I was happy for them. But it felt like I was stuck in the old. I wanted time to slow down–when had it started moving so quickly? When I see my parents now, they look older to me. They are healthy and independent, but I still worry when I hear that there was a fall or a hospital visit. I can’t check in on them and help regularly, only when I have enough time off from work. When my parents were still in Staten Island, I spent a lot of my free time with them, and that fills me with gratitude. Sometimes I have wondered if they took up so much space in my life that it left less room for other things– like a relationship. I felt lonely when they left, and perhaps I put myself out there more because of this.
I’m still in Staten Island, surrounded by friends who feel like home. I asked my mom to give me back the spare key to my apartment. I began a new relationship, and my boyfriend needed to be able to Chip when I was out. I got more involved in organizing efforts in my community. I danced more than ever and even began combining my love of dance with my social work skills, hosting healing through dance workshops. I started hosting craft nights with new friends. I picked up another job and began working towards my next level of social work licensure.
I feel less rooted to Staten Island now that my parents are gone. Yet I keep returning to this place, even in my writing. At the same time, I want more. City living can be stressful, expensive, and unsustainable. I yearn for a yard for my dog, more access to green space, and a slower pace of life. I see myself aging, faint wrinkles on my overly expressive face. I want to have kids one day, and sometimes I worry I am running out of time. I had an amazing childhood here, but I know it was because of my parents, not the place. I can’t imagine raising kids far from my parents. Should I move to North Carolina near them? Should I move to another country near my brother? I am unsure. All I know is I am here now, and I am happy. I lean back against my boyfriend’s chest, Chip snuggled on my lap, and this feels like home here and now.
D’Arcy Hearn is a full time school social worker, part time therapist, & sometimes adjunct professor from Staten Island, NY. She loves to travel, hike with her dog, and dance. As a disruptor within the educational system, she is constantly inspired by her students (and often humbled by them). One of her favorite writers is Audre Lorde, a fellow Staten Islander.