by Michael Souza
It was one of those gray autumn afternoons when the sky's a flat stretch of concrete and the world looks like it forgot how to feel. Water dripped steadily off the porch as I sat with my friend, Paul, on his back deck just outside Portland. We'd gone hiking earlier—something we used to do when we were young and dumb and wanted to feel like gods. Now we just do it to remember what it was like to move without aching afterward.
Paul poured us bourbon. "Still hate the suburbs?" he asked, handing me the glass.
"I don’t hate them," I said. "I just don’t understand how anyone settles there without losing their soul."
He laughed. "You’ve been like this since college."
"Yeah. And I always will be."
That’s when Paul brought up his brother, Nick. "You remember Nick, right? He finally bought a house in Iowa. Middle of nowhere. Got a yard, white picket fence, the whole American dream package."
I remembered Nick. Back in college, he was skinny, idealistic, always quoting Chomsky and insisting we were going to change the world. He talked about joining the Peace Corps, starting a co-op farm, fighting injustice. Now he was in rural Iowa planting zinnias.
Paul showed me pictures on his phone. Nick stood proudly in front of a vinyl-sided house with a big grin and a dog beside him. There were tomatoes in the garden, a flag by the mailbox. plums too, Paul mentioned—Nick had planted them behind the garage.
“He says they remind him of childhood,” Paul said, sipping his drink. “Says he’s never been happier.”
I looked at that photo and felt something clench in me. Happiness? Is that what we call it now? A backyard and a freezer full of Costco beef?
"You don’t look impressed," Paul said.
"I just don’t trust people who are too happy," I replied. “Especially when their happiness costs someone else something.”
Paul frowned. “You think Nick’s joy is hurting someone?”
I didn’t answer right away. It’s not that Nick was doing anything wrong. But that was the problem—he wasn’t doing anything at all. He’d opted out. When you move to the middle of nowhere and disappear behind a fence, who do you help?
“You ever think about how many people don’t get to grow old in comfort?” I said. “How many people are scraping by, trying to make rent while others are out here living their dream because they were born lucky or got the timing right?”
Paul shifted uncomfortably. “So what’s the alternative? No one’s allowed to be content?”
“No,” I said. “I just think contentment should come with guilt. Or at least awareness. Otherwise, it becomes cruelty.”
He looked at me like I’d said something awful.
But I couldn’t shake the image of Nick, barefoot in the grass, eating plums like a kid again, while the world burned.
I remembered the last time I saw him. It was during the George Floyd protests. We stood in a sea of people outside City Hall. He held a sign that read "Justice, Not Peace," and he looked determined. That night he’d told me, “We can’t stop. Not until we build something better.”
And now? He built a fence.
I’m not saying I’m better. I’m not. I work in a cubicle, I make PowerPoints, I complain about politics over beer like it changes anything. But at least I remember.
I think most people forget. That’s what comfort does. It’s a warm bath that makes you too sleepy to notice your hands are pruning.
That night, I stayed over. I couldn’t sleep. I sat by the window, watching the rain soak Paul’s lawn. Somewhere out there, Nick was probably sleeping peacefully with a full belly, and his dog curled at his feet.
I didn’t envy him.
What I envied was the ability to look away. To pretend the world was small enough to fit inside a backyard. To believe that plums—sweet, tart, nostalgic—could be enough.
I took a deep breath, and for a moment, I wished I could be like him. But I knew I couldn’t.
Because the minute you plant your roots too deep, you forget that the soil is made of other people’s ashes.
And that’s not a dream I’m willing to live.
