Ambiguous Rooftop

There is a rooftop somewhere. I believe it's in India, but I am never quite sure. It comes to me every time I'm alone. I imagine that this is life after death. A perpetual rooftop, where I am lying on a straw bed and can feel the strain of it underneath my weight as my body causes it to curve inward. My left arm has fallen off the side of the frame and begins to feel heavy from the blood rushing to my fingers. The heat is like a blanket, and I am afraid to move out of fear of disrupting the harmony of silence. But the calm is soon shattered by the squeals of boys in white hats as they burst out of the Madrasa next door, with cricket bats in their hands and their off-white kurtas flowing behind them.

There is a rooftop somewhere. I believe it's in America, but I am never quite sure. It comes to me every time I'm alone. I can hear the hum of the neighbour's tractor in the distance. I imagine him bouncing on its back in hopes of cutting his grass to near perfection. My mother walks by, but I only catch a glimpse of her hands. They've always been so beautiful to me. The skin is tight exposing the veins that flow to her fingertips like small rivers.

There is a rooftop somewhere. I believe it's in London, but I am never quite sure. It comes to me every time I'm alone. There's a small grey dog with a frayed red collar, that holds a single golden bell hanging perfectly at the centre of his neck. He doesn't talk to me but instead chooses to walk away. I believe that his movements are limited in the city, which has caused him to spiral into a state of depression. He's the only dog I've ever loved.