We’d get onto the garage’s roof first. I’d climb up our old six-footer while Dad kept it steady from below, then he’d follow me up, pull the ladder after, set it across the peak of that lower roof, and we’d climb up to the top. He asked me once what I’d do if I slipped and started rolling. I threw my arms out wide. He nodded. “Makes sense.” We talked theoretical safety procedures near the forty-foot drop (never had to use them). Dad did the worrying for me; I loved the roof. No one but us ever went up there.
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