“We’ve got a roof above our heads,” she said. I’d always hated my mother’s immunity to joy. She condemned ephemerality, and yet she drove us away from dad in her secondhand Ambassador, unaffected. “Some roof it is,” I sulked. Then horror hurled itself into my throat. The car screeched as a branch fell heavily upon the roof. I lunged forward, burying my head in a warmth familiar, whimpering. Time ceased. We cried as I held her hands and stroked her hair away from her face, looking up at her. I whispered, almost inaudibly, “I’ve got a roof above my head.”
Hemanya Vashishtha is a high-school student who adores the smell of ink, the sound of rain, and the finer tastes of life—music and books. theattichema.wixsite.com/attic