By Andrea Rothman
The man walks into my house. Tall and absurdly young, he has come to inspect my roof, and possibly fix it. My roof is over eighty years old and likely to be the only flat roof in Seattle. For over a decade now it has been leaking. When it rains, water invariably finds its way in, and it rains often here. Winters especially, I live surrounded by buckets; my living room and kitchen recalling in some distant way a children’s art project. I thought I had made peace with it, but the roofer’s presence in my house means I probably haven’t.
“Flat roofs are a problem,” the young man says, stating the obvious, yet something about his smile and large gruff hands hanging open at either side of him, suggesting a willingness to help, gives me hope.