The Roof - May 2, 2020

From the roof he could see the bare trees, naked from the cold, thin and week against the strong wind. Because the trees where bare, he saw more church steeples, house chimneys, street lamps and graveyards, untidy on the land between the roof and the mountains. The earth that made up the mountain was visible too, as if the earth was flexing its great muscles for the people of Beacon to see. The streets below were void of movement as if hiding from the mountains unmatchable strength. 

The sky was not hiding. As the morning went on it began to reveal a pale blue face behind a soft white beard. In the infinite space, predators circled from way up high the hidden pray way below. Less intimidating creatures played mismatched chirps and whistles that tangle and fall into jazz from the highest branches. 

His face matched the sky’s; blue and covered with white whiskers, but saddened by his prison cell. Many mornings came and went like this before he learned to savor the stillness his life had never recognized. One morning he noticed the taste of his coffee. Can color have a taste? If so, his coffee tasted amber. Not “honey sweet and nutty with hints of raspberry” as suggested. Amber made sense to him. It’s taste familiar but forgotten or lost.  His books shook him. He read less or at least less quickly. He held and repeated single lines as words climbed his body, starting in his stomach and leaving through the corners of his eyes. He began to draw. At first, single straight lines and simple shapes implied a vague city outline. Later, layered strokes and uneven shapes formed the most recognizable branches that he spoke to daily. He felt his clinched jaw and stiff temples melt to a babbling stream that splashed like children. His smile became sore from repeat.