Christmas on The Roof
The whisper of the soft wind brings with it the comforting spirit of the night. It slithers over the hairs of my skin with an icy caress. I wrap my soul in it. Within minutes, I forget that the sun had scorched my body all day long as I took route 11 or my aching fingertips from tapping away at the keyboard. The red tiles that I am sitting on have been pelted with rain and sun baked for long enough to halt the possibility of color rubbing off on my clothes.
It takes no effort to see past the concrete village at this height. My eyes become fixed on a winding worm of tiny yellow pairs of light. Each ripple of the worm chimes in rhythm with the slowing body clock controlling my mind. Time begins to loose its meaning. I turn to my right on the path leading to my home and capture the minute silhouette of a young mother with a bag of what seems to be groceries. On the other arm, she presses a small handbag against her side. Two dark figures ahead of her throw their arms in the air wildly. I can almost tell what they are saying in their lively sign-languaged chat. The day is slowing down to curtain-raise the weekend. The path of the lively duo and young mother will probably head to a forked end.
With the mood set, I stare at the sky. She has a dull gray complexion and hazy starry eyes. Is it the eyes that are curiously in motion or her furry clouds? The glory of Orion The Hunter is hidden behind her fur. The lazy lady is strangely comforting and her understanding of nature re-assures me that my will to succeed in a world full of deceit is a worthy quest. In the neighborhood across the border, drawn by a main road that is always buzzing, I remember the number of times I hurt a lady… there’s no moon, no need for romance.
The image of a new beginning is mirrored in my soul. The avionic aura of the roof electrifies every inch of my being. It will not let me inhale the dust of the street, hear the interfering waves of human rumblings or the clanking of crockery from dinner tables from the floors below. I blend in with the winds as I monologue with TV aerials sticking out of the tiles. These matchstick men prove to be good company. They stand still along with my paused internal tick. This is what silence before the final judgment must be like- an ironically peaceful wait to either elevation or damnation. This is what this holiday is all about, being at peace with yourself and thinking of others even when in conflict. The Christ did it everyday but to me it’s a struggle…
