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See that house perched atop that hill? That one, right there. Those shanties were dwellings for the bridge builders. That one was ours. We knew we couldn't grow up there.
We glimpsed the trees on the other side of the river - a picturesque setting perfectly framed by our living room window - and we stood fixed and blank faced, with a faraway glaze in our stare.
It must have gone on forever. Just going - getting lost for days. Standing on our side - the other side - looking back over the river. Bifurcated from the world by the rushing water. We stood at the edge of its banks, our heads crooked back, looking upwards towards that dreary lifeless shanty. The house vanished. Folded from existence by mud-spattered grimy little hands, and replaced by a sight redwood trees craned their necks to see - an endless conurbation of winding causeways and jutting spires - and there was nothing left,
just our forest,