Up On The Roof

On the fourth floor of a five story ancient walk up deep in the bowels of Chinatown, she climbs out of her single bed, scattering the dust on the linoleum as her feet hit the floor. She pads the twelve steps out her room, through the galley kitchen and into the cubby of a washroom. A sink so small she fills her hands to wash her face then douses herself while leaning over the tub alongside it, so as not to spill water all over the subway tiled floor. Various Chinese male voices can be heard barking at each other from above and below, tones shifting, guttural stops and moans; she can't tell if this is a good thing. The F train rattles overhead sending delayed vibrations up through the foundation. Sirens buzz on and off, cutting in and out; a jacked up Escalade rumbles through, stereo shaking the shampoo bottle perched on the narrow window shelf behind iron bars facing the world's smallest tub. She likes it here. Small enough to cocoon in but not claustrophobic. She feels safe here, enclosed, connected. Up on the roof she spreads out her mat, begins her daily practice. Her neighbours do tai chi across the street. They nod. She smiles, palms pressed to heart center, then lifts her chest to the sky, arms wide open before she folds herself in half like a leaf blown from it's branch, reaching back towards it's severed limb. The noise is deafening then all at once disappears, save for the occasional car down the block or random skateboard on asphalt. Every evening she comes to the roof, watches the sun set across the bridge, stares down at the maze of life forms intermingling in the dusk. Heart wide open, she embraces them all.