Not the town itself, exactly.
But the combination of isolation and abuse that Marco was dealt.
My admiration for him has never been stronger.
I wish I could put it into words.
I hope you feel it.
I hope you know.
???
We continue straight onto Perkins.
Every house has been painted from the same monotonous colour palette.
Pale yellows and creams. Greys and browns.
It’s the power lines above us that capture my attention the most.
I look up at them, trying to imagine seeing them through the eyes of a child.
He tenses suddenly.
Breath held, as we cross the intersection of Miles Street.
Parched brown lawns, withering from years of brutal droughts.
Water tanks are visible on some properties.
Small satellite dishes or solar panels perch on a roof here or there. Self sufficiency.
Vegetable gardens netted to fend off kangaroos or other unwelcome furry critters.
It’s an entirely different world out here.
“See what I mean?” he sighs.
“Just like the travel brochure,” I tease. “Are we nearly at the mall?”
That gets a smile, at least.
“This is as far as it goes.”
“Four blocks?”
“Four blocks in each direction,” he nods. “That's the whole town.”
And not in a quaint scenic village way.
No leafy mountainous landscape to soften the vibe.
I do a double take.
The roads are completely empty, despite it being almost noon.
I see a curtain twitch in a window nearby.
