My backyard? Not even worth taking a photo of. A typical suburban affair – grass freshly cut by my brother, wooden jungle gym and trampoline, concrete patio with some furniture, portable shed for the tools and mower. Sometimes two little boys are added to the scene, whom I absolutely love to death… which is why I wish they could grow up where I did. The yard is bordered by wooden fence on two sides and the third is a stone wall protecting us from the busy roadway that our house backs up to.
Beyond the wall? Even less notable. Just a plot of land that usually smells like dog shit when you drive past, full of pathetic shrubbery, red dirt and gravel. I suppose it’s for sale, but I don’t know who would buy it.
This place is unbearably hot in the summer, barely snows in the winter, and is tornado-plagued in the seasons in between. Mountains? ha. Trees? One or two.
Though it’s subsided over the years, I have a lot of anger about living in the suburbs in the Midwest, and everything in me wants to get as far away as possible as soon as possible. I know it’s selfish – I have a good life; better than many. But I can’t help it.
It has nothing to do with my family, just where they’ve chosen to live. I know my parents don’t like it either, but they knew this is where we could get the best education, opportunities, money, and proximity to family, and I appreciate that. I still hate it.