Back to being old

There was the grey of the concrete, of the smoke, of the smoke that fell to the ground. Worst of all was the grey of the people’s faces. There were however, two sights that gave this place its extraordinary colour – the singing birds from the south, and the two lovers on the roof.

Back when he was younger, I could always see him perched atop the roof, as he rested against the chimney, and she against him – staring out, always just staring out. It was never important what they were looking at; just to stay there that way, their legs playing - and the growing fondness of the realization that this was their special place, a place where man and woman could sit for countless hours and not have to speak a word, and each understand which bird, or kite, the other was following, and follow it together hence.

I never saw them after that summer in which the birds from the south never returned – which of course meant that I didn’t either. I kept moving on. And so did they, in their own way, perched atop the roof, him resting against the chimney, she against him, staring out. True, it was here, I hear, that she breathed his last.

(2005)