Viewing life from the roof

She comes up the stairs slow and heavy, almost heaving; she steps on the roof past the surly dog and the man she married. He hasn't been right since the war, walking around slumped and lost, but what can she do up here on the roof, living in a hut made of scavenged wood, waving to the neighbor, the one perched on a higher rooftop who looks down with pity on the broken sinks and battered couch that long ago was brocaded and ornate, in the French style.

By Jeffrey Fleishman

November 29, 2007