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,
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