Suburbia

You can take the man out of the farm, but can you take the farm out of the man?

It was a very pretty street. They were all pretty, in their own way. Paths piled high with leaves just waiting to crunch underfoot. Great dollops of shade to stroll through. And at the very end, a white picket fence with a pristine mailbox, just waiting for them.

It made John sick to his stomach.

With each step down that idyllic path the walls closed in. Each leaf crushed underfoot was like a gunshot to his mind. And that fence. Just a line of stakes to drive through his heart and pin him down in this godless suburbia.

He was starting to shake. Sweat poured down his face to gather under his chin. He had to get out.

He turned to run, to flee this dead end with it’s false smiles and measured lawns.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t disappoint her like that.

He turned back and forced himself to walk the last few steps to their new front gate.

This was what she wanted.

And that was all that mattered.

 

When he dreamt, he dreamt of the farm. Rolling fields as far as the eye could see, with grass all lengths and shades.

He dreamt of animals crying out for meals and the comfortable knowledge that only he could fix it.

He dreamt of freedom, hidden in the guise of responsibility.

He dreamt of home.

 

“Honey, the dog needs his walk.” He wife commented as he watched the animal pace desperately in their infinitesimally small back yard.

John got to his feet and left silently.

He didn’t need a lead. No animal raised on a farm ever did.

He walked down the unnatural street with its cement and tarmac, longing for the horrifying squelch of mud and annoying itch of grass.

Dog dashed into the park to scare up ducks, barking his professional bark.

John followed. He ignored the path to walk through the perfectly manicured lawn, feeling the resistance of dirt laid on rock.

Everything here was wrong.

In the distance, dog flopped on the ground, defeated.  The ducks here were decoration. No noise could move them from their pond.

 

Every day John walked that unnatural path in that manicured world. And every day he could feel the walls closing in until it wrapped around him like a second skin, rigid and familiar.

 

He didn’t dream of the farm anymore. He didn’t dream of anything at all.

Suburbia had claimed him. 

Author's Note

My boyfriend is afraid he'll end up in the suburbs. He thinks it signifies the death of dreams.