It’s Friday morning. The skies opened up this morning with sunshine and the seas are reflected from one side of the horizon to the other. Blue. Well, bluish. OK, it’s a bit hazy. And I am thousands of miles from the nearest sea. But the roofers are here and if you are a homeowner in need of a roof repair you understand the religious experience that is a contractor who actually shows up with “his guys”.
I am saved.
Three hours in and I am so over it.
The noise, noise, noise, NOISE!
Pounding. Dragging. Dropping. Banging. I get it! The roof was broken and it must be torn down to the foundation before it can be rebuilt. And the rebuilding won’t come easy or without a price
I so wish I were speaking metaphorically.
I surrender. Baptize me in your cacophonous invocation.
Really, what choice do I have? I did, in fact, ask for this. My insurance company did, in fact, demand it. Homeownership is a privilege that comes with a price. (she says as she writes the huge check)
Yes, I surrender to the lords of city codes and to the gods of hail and to the spirits of poorly made shingles sold by companies who are protected by liability time limits.
Yes, I surrender. I’d surrender out loud if I thought anyone could hear me over the incessant (albeit necessary) banging.
Can you hear me now?
I’m going to pour myself another cup of caffeine.
I’m going to crank up my Hamilton playlist.
I’m going to pop a few Advil (leaving the Oxycodone in the bottle—something to write about on another day, a quieter day)
I’m going to visualize an intact roof that won’t leave me questioning my atheism during a storm.
I’m going to write…something…perhaps something ridiculous.
I’m not going to throw away my shot. (I love you if you got this)
Aaaaand now the door I bought doesn’t fit…