I hesitate, eyeballing the listing fence, the height of the roof. I’m already in my pajamas.
“I don’t know, honey. I’m not much of a climber anymore.” I place one turquoise flip flop on the wooden rail, press into it. The fence lurches, peeling paint raining like confetti onto the cement. “Hold on a second,” I say to Noah, “I’ll be right back.”
I drag the rickety step ladder from the garage and position it as close to the shed as I can. It wobbles on the uneven pavement. Noah peers over the edge of the roof on his knees, one palm on the top of the ladder.
“I’ve got it, Mommy,” he says. “I’m holding it steady.”
I’m almost to the top. On the highest rung I pause, gripping the side of the ladder with one white-knuckled hand as I push my sunglasses up over my hair with the other. I place one knee on the scratchy shingles, my other flip flop foot still on the ladder, my body spanning the cement. “You can do it; you’re almost here,” Noah encourages. And then in one groaning, awkward lunge, I pull myself onto the roof.
It feels higher than it actually is. We are, after all, only about seven feet off the ground. But it’s a whole new perspective on the neighborhood. We sit with our knees pulled to our chests and watch, quiet.
Across the alley, Marian brushes Archie, clumps of white fur blowing onto the golf course like milkweed fluff. Partially camouflaged behind the elm tree leaves, the golfers don’t spot us either, clubs clinking as they lumber into the hot haze. Next door Gary sweeps the patio, the rhythmic swish of the broom like a snare drum brushing the still air.
Noah gives me a tour of the roof. His favorite area is under the overhang, where the lichen patterns the speckled shingles like a Rorschach blot. He tells me the brittle grey greens up after a rain. “It’s always living,” he says nodding, eyes solemn, “even when it looks dead.”
I vow to return to the roof again. We’ll bring our books, I tell Noah. And maybe a blanket. We’ll come up here in our pjs with snacks after Rowan goes to bed. It will be our Mommy-Noah time.
I have big plans for that shed roof.
I spot Noah on his rooftop perch from time to time over the summer. Sometimes he calls me to come up, and I always answer the same, “I will…in a minute. When I’m done watering the garden.” Or folding laundry. Or loading the dishwasher. Or putting away the groceries.
Summer passes in a flash. The boys are back in school. There’s homework to do, choir rehearsal, soccer practice, lunches to pack.
And I wonder, as I water the basil in the evening sun, if the lichen on the roof is green or grey.
Do you {or did you as a kid} have a secret spot?
{and yeah, for the record, I did climb down the ladder to get my camera and back up again to take these pictures!}
Welcome to Graceful Summer, a link-up community here on Fridays through the end of August. We’re sharing stories about the smaller, quieter moments of summer – will you share yours, too?
