after the rain of many years

I.
it was a few years ago
he had spent the summer on the roof
growing tomato plants, juniper, sage
the vines from the ivy crushed the black tarmac roof
brought closer the four short walls

he hid a small rhododendron and at night would stare heavenwards
from the pillow of his bed
and recount the exact shape and dimensions of the pot
and if he were to raise up
body pressed to ceiling
he would be plaster bits away from his tree

above the kitchen grew some decorative chili plants
and he thought of them when he made a sandwich
(i could be frying up little chilis right now)
his eyes would flash at the ceiling intermittently
and remember what grew above his head
that which he would escape to hours later to water
and check the succulence of his vegetables

II.
last year, yes. i remember
they tore down the fire escape and the ladder to the roof
because a student fell off
while playing football
on the roof across the street
i remember someone asked did they catch it?
when told they had jumped off in a long pass

we could no longer go upstairs
and it was so sudden
i think i had left my towel and
little boombox that played with just one speaker
we were lucky we weren't up there when they did it
i told him
but he stayed quiet
and hesitated when i asked him about his plants
i knew that he could see them withered, dessicated like rodents caught in a trap
he threw away his watering can
i know because i bought him some plants for inside our apartment
and he used a water glass to feed them at night

i knew when he forgot he would let his eyes flash up
and still woke in the night feeling his body pressed against the ceiling
the rhododendron heavy with death
and sometimes i think it hurt him to feel them so close
and be so powerless to keep them alive

III.
yesterday, it was a miracle
i asked him if he noticed the leak in the ceiling
and he said he hadn't seen it, he hadn't noticed
and i took him near the coffee table and pointed and look! look at that!
there was a crack in our ceiling and it sagged like a ripped bag of wet laundry
leaking and dripping on the floor
it was the color of earth and seemed to breathe with life

so they came to inspect and saw the fresh mud and dirt
they had nothing long enough so the firetrucks came
to stretch their wispy ladders to the roof
tallest building they said tallest building on this street
i watched from my bedroom window
and he watched from underneath the slit in our ceiling and let the water hit his face

from my room i heard the sound of an avalanche
and underneath it he stood
covered in mud and moss and leaves
they kept falling, kept coming as though the whole roof was pulled like dough
remnants of soiled roots and overripe fruits and rich vegetables sank in a pile around his feet
becoming sweet, soiled syrup
lush and strong, his tree had fallen to the corner, taking bits of plaster with it
and nearby, a planter that had just missed his head
and a pot that had hit his shoulder when it fell
i asked him later why he didn't duck
and he said he had been staring at the sky