The view from the roof always seems unusual, even the area you know like the back of your hand, having explored every nook and cranny, and knowing how many bricks are in the house across the street, from one window to the next. Even your own backyard, where you grew up, and every curb knows the size of your childhood shoe. And in the cracks between the entrance door and the old rusty pipe, there is still a note for the girl from the parallel class, which she probably will never read. Even these places from the roof will seem different.
From the roof, the noisy morning, the hustle and bustle of the waking city, the wafting smells of coffee from open kitchen windows, the creaky gate of the daycare fence through which mothers drop off their sleepy, crying children, all seem beautiful. Who and why invented these daycares, and when? Of course, there is rationality in them, but it contradicts everything natural. How many children, out of all those brought there, don’t cry? Probably only a few, or the most resilient ones, who fear the wrath of strict parents and hold back all tears inside, swallowing them quietly along with their sadness.
They are left in the company of completely unfamiliar people, and it’s still unknown how to behave with them and what to expect from them. And there’s this feeling of loneliness and uselessness in this world. Why do all the adults at the doors of this daycare pretend that everything is not so terrible and that it’s all just childish whims and fantasies? Everyone understands that it’s not the case.
I’ve been observing this process every morning for almost [insert duration], and not a single mother has yet told her child that she understands how bad, sad, lonely, and unbearably melancholic they feel, so tears just flow on their own, and they would be glad to stop them, but it’s overwhelming. In most cases, mothers are stern, which only exacerbates the child’s condition even more. Everyone rushes to escape, closing the door and the gate behind them, as if to erase any traces.
Then you linger by the lockers in the changing room, take off your shoes, change into indoor footwear, and sit there until someone comes out and leads you into the hall with everyone else, because you really don’t want to go there. Bright elephants, dogs, flowers, and berries painted everywhere don’t bring any joy. After all, you’re just not in the mood for them when sadness has engulfed you like this.
I was there a couple of times; they took me there, but since my parents didn’t have much money, and daycare services were not cheap at all, and I threw tantrums whenever I could, they decided to leave me at home under the watchful eye of a neighbor.
From the rooftops in the morning, you can catch the smell of coffee. It makes you believe and feel warmth and coziness, envisioning warm blankets, soft armchairs, fresh newspapers, and even glossy magazines, of which there are plenty in our world and no longer surprise anyone. Like a mist enveloping the city at night, it slowly rises from the ground and momentarily freezes on the rooftops.
The air up there is quiet, precisely quiet. Yes, it’s cleaner than down below. There isn’t such a variety of smells in it, but that’s understandable. But it’s precisely quiet, as if down there in the air not only aromas and odors gather, but also all the words and all the noise. This air heals with its quiet purity, freeing thoughts from emotions and unnecessary worries; inhaling it, you can feel freedom and tranquility.
I ascend here almost every morning, and it feels like I’m in a different world, as if I don’t belong to anyone or anything here. I watch as the light bulbs in the windows turn on, as everyone starts to rush, waking each other up, as the sun rises from behind that big green roof. At the same time, the color is hardly visible because the sun usually shines very brightly and obscures a couple more roofs with its rays.
Over there, slightly to the right of the sunrise, is a building with a gray, dirty roof that hasn’t seen repairs in many years and probably won’t for many more. It’s the pediatric dentistry building. They used to be everywhere, brand new, clean, trying to lure everyone in with colorful advertisements. The doctors there, they say, were kind and treated without pain or fear; you could watch cartoons. And the bravest ones always got a little toy. But I didn’t experience any of that. It was a long time ago, before I even existed.
Before our world became so gray and gloomy, where everyone fights for their lives every day and there are no plans for the future. Only here and now. I have no pleasant thoughts about this gray building; inside, it smells damp and of medicines. I ended up there once; a milk tooth didn’t want to fall out on its own, and our caregiver took me there. The weather was terrible, damp, cold autumn, puddles and cold raindrops right on the face.
