The houses at the end of the cul de sac, once belonging to the whole street, overlook the Pacific Ocean, where my grandfather's ashes were spread. They are well loved and sinking into the surrounding sand that’s held them up for generations. Built by my grandfather and finished by my father, they stand tall, but not as tall as the concrete condos that went up while my grandfather was still alive. Once, when my younger brother was around eight years old, he exclaimed how wonderful it would be to live in those condos. How big and new and beautiful. I think the statement hurt my father and grandfather, whose legacies ran through the very wooden beams that kept our houses from sinking too far. I’ve never wanted anything else other than these homes and when my grandfather died I made a promise to myself, mostly for his sake, that I’d buy the other houses in the cul de sac that he built. My brother wants this too, after years of wanting what seemed bigger and better. We’re both proud, maybe not of the actions committed by the departed, but by these houses that say something different. I occasionally sit on the wooden decks that were built for my aunts so that they could sun tan in teenage bliss and I remember how my grandfather used to watch us playing in the sand on these decks, because he could no longer make it down the path. Years from now that is where I will sit, watching my own children and then my grandchildren as the sun sets behind them and me, yet the cul de sac will remain.