when i was ten, maybe, the roof of our house was rebuilt. bricks were traded for sheet metal. two young men from a nearby island did the work during one summer. i loved spending time with them on the roof, “helping” them as much as i could. one of them was called “puppe”, a name usually exclusive for pet rabbits.
anyway. at my childhood home, the roof is where i feel safe.
i’m sitting next to the chimney, looking at the gravel road to our house.
i’m also sitting on top of my room. some of my sibblings with their friends are sitting by the water.
my window fell down on the roof, during a storm, i guess. there’s still one left.