Excerpt...
When I left my city apartment and moved to a house in the suburbs, I was thrilled at the idea of having my own private retreat--a backyard in which I could play ball with my kids, entertain friends or simply meditate under a tree. Suburban life would be, I expected, a far cry from the old apartment building with its anemic patch of grass, boxed in by the asphalt parking lot, where we used to fire up the Smokey Joe. Now, we could sit on our patio and listen to the rustling of leaves in the poplar trees, rather than the scratching of rats in the dumpster.
For two years, I got my wish. In daytime, our kids kicked the soccer ball around while we planted hostas and impatiens that were eaten by rabbits and chased the neighbor's cat away from the baby wrens in our birdhouse. At dusk, we lit citronella candles to keep away the mosquitoes that came out at night--the usual variety I'd known since girlhood, the lazy, slow ones easily swatted or repelled by a can of Off with the lower DEET concentration. We listened to the rhythmic hum of the neighbor's pool-cleaning machine and the song of the crickets. We counted fireflies. It was close to magical.
And then you arrived, uninvited, without proper paperwork, stowed away in a ship from Hong Kong, I hear, in some new tires.
From Washington Post Style