Suburbs were built for a different time. I stand on my porch, in the house I raised three of my seven children. Two more were here in their teens, still formative years. It’s arbitrary, really, where and who was raised. No definitive line can be drawn.

Two of my children had left home before we moved here. One boomeranged back and has attached to this area, mainly, I suspect, because the rest of us are here. One was nearly launched when we came; he finished his Eagle project here and received the rank, but never emotionally attached to the troop here. He’s gone, as is my eldest, who has only visited briefly.

I sit on my front steps and look around at the houses, the trees. We are blessed with ancient trees, as old or older than the 80 year old homes. Several trees have come down in recent years, and the city has preemptively removed several more. The tall oak in front of our house, wreathed in ivy and sprouting a persistent mulberry in its side, let me know today that it will be leaving. I felt it as I enjoyed the shade. Two nearby trees were culled; half of my front yard is blasted with noonday sun.

I say blasted because there’s been no rain for a week or more; the ground is dusty dry. Even the perennial lawn grass is stiffly yellow. It’s greener in the shade, and of course the wily broadleaf natives are vivid green. Why did we choose grass? Society, I mean. Grass forms a sturdy mat and stays put without much maintenance, most of the time. But it isn’t as drought resistant as the wilder plants.

I thanked the oak for staying; we have enjoyed it immensely. Like the trees, the children are leaving. The homes I see hold single men and women, and elderly couples. There are small children in my neighborhood; I’ve seen them walking with their parents. But they are few.