Most of the houses on Orchard Avenue are similar in age to my wife, in a neighbourhood the age of her parents. Half a block north, you can see the original farmhouse, set between in-fills. This was most likely the first house to emerge from this former assemblage of fields, now unidentifiable as anything but contemporary suburban sprawl: a street named for what it once held. And forty years on, from the exodus of apples, stray tree roots still infect the backyard pastiche of new in-ground pools. They enact their revenge.
(for Christian McPherson,