I have very few good memories about my old house on the corner of 8th Street; I lived there when I was four or five. Every time I walk past it, I feel all these bad memories rush through my mind like a car hitting a pole with full force. The awful house that gives me all these bad memories is where my dad left my mom, where I got stung by wasps, and where my step-brother promised to visit us but never did. When my dad left my mom, I was only 5, but I remember some parts of that day faintly. The parts I do remember just kill me to think about. I can remember sitting on the couch with my dad and brother while my mom was off doing something. I told my dad I didn’t want him to leave and that I wanted to spend time with him. I can’t remember what he replied back. Still, I also remember some good memories like Christmas time! I remember running in the snow and playing snow baseball. My brother, my dad, and I always played sports like football and basketball in the snow. We would put snow around the basketball, and my dad would pick us up so we could slam dunk it. He bought us snow molders so we could make little baseballs out the snow. We could never hit them! Now that I think of it, that’s really funny! Yes, memories come and go, but when the bad ones arrive, I always have the good memories to make me happy.