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hear the pigeons flapping through the rafters, and you can take in all the
graffiti without everyone around. Some of it’s pretty incredible.
But I guess my absolute favorite place, other than you, of course, is my
house. I know, I know. My dad is there, so why would I want to be? But
actually… After my dad and sister have gone to sleep at night, when
everything is dark, I crawl out my window and up to the roof. There’s a little
hidden valley between the ridges where I sit back against the chimney,
sometimes for hours, dicking around on my phone, taking in the view, or
sometimes I write you. I love it up there. I can see the tops of the trees,
blowing in the night wind, the glow of the street lamps and stars, the sound
of leaves rustling… I guess it makes me feel like anything is possible.
The world isn’t always what’s right in front of you, you know? It’s below,
it’s above, it’s out there somewhere. Every burn of every light inside every
house I see when I look down from the rooftop has a story. Sometimes we
just need to change our perspective.
And when I look down at everything, I remember that there’s more out
there than just what’s going on in my house—the bullshit with my dad,
school, my future. I look at all those full houses, and I remember, I’m just
one of many. It’s not to say we’re not special or important, but it’s
comforting, I guess. You don’t feel so alone.
Misha
I hold his letter in my hand, the last one he sent me in February before
he stopped writing, and stare at the handwriting probably only I can read.
The rough strokes and abrupt marks crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, and
the way he never puts the appropriate amount of space between words, so
his sentences end up looking like one big, long hashtag.