Not again…fighting, screaming, yelling…why can’t they do this when I’m not home?
Crawl out my window onto the fire escape and I go up to my rooftop sanctuary to numb myself from this noise. At the age of 12 I shouldn’t even know what the word sanctuary means, nonetheless need one.
My sanctuary is nice. It sits atop the city skyline that overlooks traffic, Point Park and in the distance I can see the river. A grass rooftop, real grass, real dirt, Mother Nature three stories up in the city sky. I have a Chesapeake chaise lounge chair, again something else I should not know the proper name for but my mother is sure to remind me to refer to the furniture by its correct name. The lounge chair is placed underneath solar panels so there is always good shade for me to relax in. Wind chime, bird feeders and an herb garden; the sustainabley-eco-friendly trifecta of a sanctuary. I even get internet up here.
A glass of lemonade, laptop, ipod, headphones and I can forget about the sounds of my parents’ lives falling apart underneath my feet.
What and why of all of this: My father had an 8-month affair with his sectary. How unoriginal, I like him less for being typical. He blames the affair on my mother’s crazy eyes and her constant neglect of his opinion. Not that bad of an excuse, truth be told.
Two parents with only three things left in common; stuff, how to get more stuff and most importantly how are we going to pay for all this stuff.
The stuff part works out ok for me. I am 12 with a rooftop sanctuary that gets internet. I want for nothing. I ask for everything. As long as I can live with the dysfunction beneath my grassy feet everything will be ok. I hope.
