By Elisavietta Ritchie
She is large, fair and buxom and nobody asks her age. Some from a distance guess forty, biographers hint at more. But why she bothers to carry a thermos heavy with ice and juice from her attic apartment down four flights of stairs to the foot of ladders surrounded by splintered wood, cracked tiles, tarpaper torn into trapezoids, bent rusted nails, twisted-off gutters too full of holes to hold more than last year’s maple leaves —
Not even her building. The brick one across the alley. The roofs are on par, and since her windows are raised, they share their orchestrations of crowbars, hammers, buzz saws, planks clanging, while she spins back Aida, Traviata, Forza del Destino.
Now she waits while they lower a rope five flights down. Might they lift her like a wired angel up to their heights? Continue reading “Story Time: The Woman Who Gave Juice To The Roofers”