For a while, the suburbs ended a few blocks west of us.
We used to cycle there, to where the half empty street ran into a dirt cul-de-sac, to where the city puttered out into vacant space.
From there, all the way to the end of the world, it was nothing but empty farm land. We used to cycle there and imagine life beyond the distant hills. (I have a memory of heavy skies and cold wind rushing through the long bending grass. And silence).
Do you remember the day they came with the dozers and graders to extend the road? One of the workers told us that they were building new houses out there and that one day, there would be houses as far as we could see.
Later that afternoon, after the work crews had gone home, we went back and played on the machinery, until it got dark.
Then you threw a stone at one of the graders, breaking a tail light. You hated the idea of being surrounded by strangers, other people’s homes, their noise.
I have been back there, since. Without you.
I could not find where the tar had ended and the dirt began. The low ridge of hills in the distance is now covered with big, expensive houses.
Dad says it’s a golfing estate.
Later, I went back with my daughter, after the sun had set and threw a stone at one of the street lights.