Cul-de-Sac
Aug 8 2009


I grew up in a cookie-cutter suburb
attached to a grim provincial city
that looked longingly overseas
to the mother country,
looked askance
at anything but Church
on Sundays,
and looked down its Anglo-Saxon nose
at immigrants,
who were strange, and uppity.
On a tidy cul-de-sac
grass cut weekly,
a Buick, or Pontiac
parked out front.

Downtown is now polyglot
cosmopolitan
status, and money-mad,
but still feels insecure
about its place,
calling itself world-class
like a teenager seeking approval.
Meanwhile, the outskirts are stuck
in the same bland decade
I grew up.

I return, as if travelling through time,
except the trees are bigger
the house has shrunk.
And unlike us
no kids are playing in the streets,
there’s no one to be seen
behind tinted glass,
as driverless cars
purr
into remote-controlled garages.
So no one ever walks,
and next-door neighbours nod
politely.

Old people, mostly.
In empty nests that are worth a fortune,
which they will soon unload
for a condo
with a narrow view of the lake,
if you crane just so.
And my old house
sold to newlyweds from Hong Kong
or Bangalore,
who will fill it
with the smell of foreign cooking,
re-paint in crimson and gold,
and raise kids
who can’t stand suburban living,
moving out
as soon as they’re of age.

They say such places will die
when the oil runs out.
So these kids will return to a ghost town
a museum of the 20th century, post-war,
a world we thought was normal
and permanent,
but turned out to be exceptional;
a short time-out
from history.

Which immediately comes back to me
walking by a postage stamp lawn
on a tiny downtown lot
— a lawn mower, clattering;
the smell of fresh cut grass.