up on the rooftop

Our house has become a curiosity.
We are reroofing.
Now when I say we, I really mean my husband.
He is the one who is brave enough to scramble all over the roof and dangle over the eaves.
When the ladders went up, passing cars slowed.
When the scaffolding took shape, people far below on the street gazed upwards, their steps faltering.
As the stacks of shingles along the peak have diminished though, neighborhood interest has not done likewise.
Today two woman perched on their car bumper and watched my husband's high wire act.
Moments later, the occupants of a car craned their necks, not to check for oncoming traffic, but to check on the progress near the peak.
I imagine the span of time this project is taking may be part of the fascination.
Work and diminishing daylight hours have transformed my husband into a weekend warrior. A weekend after weekend after weekend warrior.
This has not been a sprint but a marathon.

My mother forgets things now.
This allows her to enjoy the sensation of surprise each time fresh volleys of thumps and bangs echo down from the rafters.
I have become like a kindly recorded device announcing that her son-in-law is on the roof.
Today for some reason, I found myself telling her it was Santa.
Must have been the frost in the morning air.