Those nights I spent up on the rooftop terrace—
I would stop at the edge, but never lean over
the low banister, made up of the same chalky white
cement as the rest of the building’s exterior.
The moon seemed born of the same chalk on hazy
nights when the sky turned gray and grainy
like those cheesy old Tamil romantic dramas
my mother would put on to mourn her marriage.
The buildings were crowded so close together
that my lips could kiss the next banister over
if I just leaned a little further. The crows
would crouch on either side and bridge the gap
and they’d peck at the damp clothes on my neighbour’s line.
She always hung the clothes out at night to dry.
The practice bewildered and enchanted me, I itched
to ask her, filled with a childish curiosity,
Are they really dry by morning?
Doesn’t the sunrise dew settle in the fibers
and ruin the hard work of your tired hands
and the black night’s lukewarm exhale?
I could not find reason in it, and yet
matching cotton nightgowns and bare feet
on cool tile, mother and daughter every other
night came up to the rooftop terrace
On the elder’s hip a faded orange plastic tub;
the younger, trailing, stubby little fingers fumbling
with two handfuls of clothespins, dropping
one out of three in her wake.
They sang Nilaave Vaa and I wanted
so badly to join them. I thought then
of my mother, turning up the radio
in the old green van on the way to Toronto
Nilaave vaa she called, and it came
out as if on cue just for her and for me.
Aryan is 19 years old and lives in Montreal, QC. He plans to study secondary education at McGill and become an English teacher. Other than reading and writing, his hobbies include drawing, playing guitar, and crocheting.