MARY JANE'S STORIES: THE ROOF

 MARY JANE'S STORIES: THE ROOF

You know those terrace roofs that are very common in American buildings? Those from which you can admire the buildings of the city silhouetted on the horizon, while taking a dip in the pool or sipping a drink? My building also had one; it was old, dirty, battered, crumbling in the central part where the weight of water and snow was accelerating the fall. Sure, I wasn't in midtown Manhattan, but I could still see the Yankees stadium and a small park over the projects’ rooftops. The roof was accessible via a narrow staircase built entirely of wood, which creaked and crumbled whenever my feet rested on the steps. At the end of the staircase was a heavy, squeaky door that could no longer be locked, considering how rotten and rusty the padlock and lock were. The stagnant water trapped in the central drop in the roof smelled of sewage in the summertime, but I always found a spot near the rail where I could sit, roll a joint and admire the view. Everything seemed more beautiful from up there: you could not hear the squeak of the rats that, from the entrance of the building, were relentlessly trying to enter the uninhabited apartment on the first floor; the screams and threats of the inhabitants of the district, who railed at each other daily, were so distant and indistinct that they could be mistaken for curtseys between villagers; the garbage left on the streets was invisible to the view from up there, as was the misery of the neighborhood. That place was a happy little oasis where I hid from society, from the stress and exhaustion after a day of work, and from my illness. On my days off I liked to enjoy the sunset from that height, because I was able to greet the sun during its descent which gave way to darkness. Its rays enveloped the neighborhood with a warm and harmonious light, and my heart was filled with hope and, at the same time, melancholy. I could grasp the majesty of life, as well as the malaise of a new day. The night was my favorite, the splendid and intense queen of darkness. There is no other time of day when I can truly think, create and live like at night. With tears in my eyes I looked up at the moon, sang nostalgic melodies and wrote poems full of anguish. But everything was wonderful, because that dark and fascinating mantle lulled me and whispered to me "fear nothing, find the strength in your soul and scream your pain to the world. I will protect you until, tired and dejected, you can't do anything else than abandon yourself to sleep and rest your mind waiting for a new day ". The loneliness of that roof and the magic of the night were all I had for endless months. My presence on that terrace was blown away by the wind the day I left, but the echo of those reminiscences will live on forever in my memory. Martina.