Up on the Roof

“We are funny creatures. We don't see the stars as they are, so why do we love them? They are not small gold objects, but endless fire.”

― Saul Bellow, "Henderson the Rain King"

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Dear Kate,

Climbing on the roof is about the most heady lived metaphor I have for this life.

The first time water dripped down the ceiling my heart sank so low I didn't know where to lay my net to haul it back...from the bottom of the sea?  Yes, that's how it felt like, a deep sea of unknown I saw in a tiny trickle of water.

I thought I've made the worst mistake of my life.

Who the hell told you to commit to a house that you can't take care of? a voice from ocean deep, and, damn, a family?  Should have stayed single and scot-free.  Should have stayed in that little townhouse and write those unquestioned postdated maintenance-fee cheques to contract out your fears and incompetence.  You aren't cut out for this.  Your daddy didn't know nothing about fixing a house and never taught you any.  Should have kept to the little poetry in your head and let the endless fire die there.

Tar is black, pitch black, about as black as anything I've seen, an endless tunnel with no fire at the end.  You could get high on the smell, if up the roof is not high enough for you.

Yesterday I climbed up for probably the fifteenth time in my life: I used to keep the count but lost it a while back.  It used to be ceremonious too, me saying a final prayer facing the rooms where my then little kids were still sound asleep, then later feeling sorry for myself when the kids were older and wouldn't say a prayer with me, for me.

No more swollen head or weak heart for me now.  Just give me the ladder and let's climb.  Let us, I and myself, the interlocutor from ocean deep I went down to meet.

I have a rather flat roof, so I wouldn't say it's that big a deal once you're up there.  Unless you have a fear of heights.  Unless you have to work along the edges (which was mostly the case when the roof first gave me troubles).  The sound of kneecaps hitting each other is gross, even as it dispels into thin rarified air.

Yesterday was about racing against the sunset, the endless fire steadily ending on me, thinking quick on my feet while doing the exact opposite.  You don't slap the black stuff on anywhere, for you don't know where the source(s) of your trouble is.  Water moves.  What you see is often not what's really happening.  Half way between heaven and earth I was together with the cosmos, all alone.

I thank my brother-in-law for giving me my first ladder, the one I am still using for this height: it must be his way to tell me to climb a little.  And I thank my dog for calling to my attention this latest drip down the ceiling: I pay attention to everything she pays attention to.

No more dripping this morning.  For now anyway.

You should know I am making a bigger deal out of this than what it really was.  I am in housing, the kind you can conduct yourself indoor.  I am facing the elements everyday to get people housed, though when it comes to blood sweat and tears I rarely need to shed any.

Let's get to work now.

Yours, Alex