THE ROOFTOP MIST GARDEN: THE MUSIC OF VANCOUVER

BY VIVIAN LI

The metallic table wobbles with the first piercing shrieks of gulls calling the skyline, evening. You sit in the echoing air, spine angling away from the rigid chair, towards the blinking chains of white light; it must be, you realize, as your eyes follow down the stretch of the tessellated grey-white patterned patio, a dance calling forth the rainstorm that will strike within the hour. Beyond the sporadically thin Granville Island bridge rests a horizon blushing orange. Wrapped by the eastern mountain wind, snake-like, the wiry hands of a silver birch tree uncurl.

A couple smiles with open-orange foreign sounds—a woman with a black hat, a man with a parka jacket holding a Blenz Coffee cup. Pulling on their gloves, they sit six feet away from you, their intertwined fingers gliding through wisps of cloud in the sky. You lean closer, the only listener within the half-dozen round tables, slipping into their secrets. You can almost understand their lifts and turns as you sip your London Fog, sweet and calming between your teeth—its warmth surrounded by a chestnut wrap, bumpy spine sharp against fingertips. Already your hands are chilled from bone to marrow, and your feet angle back, towards home, but you want to listen a little longer, to outlast the thin mist before rain.

Heavy smoke rises behind three squat beige buildings—within the central seven-floored apartment, only the fourth-floor bulb burns. In the open window, a shadow passes by: a memory. There are other signs of life the longer you hum; a leaf flutters across the ground; a bag lifts, buoyed by air; a chickadee squeaks in the birch tree, its body squinting against the grey-haired sky. Firm solar panels catch the last hazy quivering of light. Your legs, pressed tight against the rattling table, have found grounding, sustenance. Warm air rushes past; two students walk in step as a pair of sparrows brushes bodies in an eternal, infinite loop, before dividing across the skyline, and falling onto separate perches.

You glance behind at the rows of glass in mirrored reflection; the garden aching brown from Winter’s wrath. Anthem music soars from the couple’s phones—you smile at the increasing number of jacketed figures braving the chill to find solace in the sinking sunset. Two old friends, one with grey shoes, another wearing white, call the other sinister and pose before the birch tree. Their masks are down, unadorned. The latter answers a phone call after pointing to the CBC quarters below; teasing, he tells his mother he stopped Ben from jumping off the roof of the library. Ben catches your eye, and he waves as he and his friend climb down the stairs. Lights are sprinkled everywhere; lights sparkling in tune with the glow on bridges and wire lines. L-shaped sapphire apartments with ash-brown, teal, and ochre roofs crowd the cityscape before you. But what is beyond these buildings, and beyond those?

The first sharp drop on your forehead signals the arrival of twilight, the bruise of grey heavier against the horizon. Soon, you will be recalled home. The mountain-clear scent of the wind reminds you that within a distanced world, the populated trees, blinking teal-greens, and anchored buildings have not yet shifted. The patio lights will beat on in the storm, vivacious. A lady dressed in silver-and-cream curves a Pano of the patio. The mask on her face does not hide her yearning for connection. You smile as you, the couple, and the birch tree, are captured.