They say the grass is always greener on the other side, but when I look over my fence, all I see are brownfields. Old industrial lots. Makes no sense to move. Not moving runs in my blood. My great-grandfather who built this house with his bare hands, refused to move when the steel companies started buying up lots around him.
He always said, they would get theirs and they did. Right around the time my grandpa started working there. My grandpa was a terrible worker. "Laziest motherfucker, I've ever met," grandma would say, "but boy did he have some swimmers." She's referring to all my aunts and uncles. 17 of em. All born in this house.
They all moved away. One died. My aunt, Jude. A car accident. We danced at my uncle Jimmy's wedding. I was 6. She was 22.
Dad was oldest, so he got to keep the house. Not that anyone else wanted it. Dad worked at the factory until they closed up shop in the 80's and shipped all those jobs to China for pennies on the dollar.
Dad turned to booze and eventually bailed. Just me and mom here for the last 20 years. She died last Tuesday. Funeral was nice. A couple of dad's siblings stopped by. They all told me to move and I said, "the grass is always greener."

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