I stumbled through my rent-controlled apartment, the dingy, smelly, unclean apartment that resisted any form of cleaning. I started in the living room, scene of our first kiss. The happy memory spread through the room, as if I was watching a movie. The repulsiveness faded slightly and the sight of our lips meeting made the temperature rise a few degrees. That night, I never knew I could feel so content inside the series of stained walls I called home.  I felt light afterwards, as if I was forged by hammer into a new soul. With the moon in the sky, I climbed above my rusted balcony, onto the fire escape, lifted myself to the crumbling ledge and finally hoisted myself up on the roof. Up there was the most beautiful sight of the Halifax sky I had ever seen, the technological radiance of the city just licked at the natural brilliance of the stars in the sky. The next day I climbed back up, several times, lugging supplies. By sundown I had built a garden without flowers and a small pyramid of beer bottles. I sat for a second, roughly kicking the sweat from my forehead like I had been by so many bouncers at so many bars in my younger days. I climbed down once more and grabbed the finishing touch, one daisy.

  Next I went into the kitchen, the backdrop of our first fight. I tried with all of my bruised mind to recall what the fight had been about, but whatever it was just seemed so much more significant at the time. She walked out that night, vowing to never cross the threshold of my rent-controlled apartment again. She came back, two days later with two Keiths and my favorite Slowcoaster c.d she had borrowed. I smiled and stepped aside, appreciating her scent, physique and above all her presence. Both nights I made a trip up to my garden, by then I had planted quite a few: our first time, our first slasher flick, our first game of clue, or first book together, the first “meal” I cooked for her, a flower for each. For the fight I planted an Oleander, and for our first make up sex I planted a Lily.

  My eyes unfocused for a few minutes and I found my way to the bathroom by means of my mental map alone. The best memory I had in the cramped little room was one clouded by smoke. We sat in my bathtub, our legs hanging from the side and our faces almost touching. We passed my bong back and forth, giggling like a set of idiots. I expected to hear from the war veteran across the hall about the smoke, but I suspected he got too high to bother. After that I planted a little marijuana plant that I scored from a friend, although tempted as I was, I never smoked it.

  Stepping out from the bathroom, I realized there was only one more place to go, the bedroom, the tin can that we both stored ourselves so neatly inside. I stepped in, holding my breath, as if there was some toxic chemical floating inside. I closed my eyes and exhaled, then inhaled again. I was satisfied that the only dangerous element was the apartment itself. Being inside the bedroom hurt as if I had just stepped inside an Iron Maiden, both being about the same size. As the uncomfortable bed, the worn armoire and the sleeping city outside my window as our witnesses, this was the first time that we said we loved each other. Sitting crossed legged and listening to the concert a few block away, we looked each other in the eyes and said the words we were both wanting and dreading to hear. The next morning while she slept, I awoke to meet the sun and I planted one red rose.

 I climbed out the window my tin can and scaled to the roof above. I dangled my feet over the ledge of the building and pulled out my lighter from my pocket. I looked back to my own little garden, bulging with flowers. Striking the flint, and watching the flame explode and linger in front of me, I sat in silence. I passed my finger through the fire, letting it singe my flesh just a little. I had taken her up once, and her face blossomed into a smile that I had never seen so clear and un-diluted,. We stood on my apartment building, looking at the garden our relationship had made, and I fell onto one knee, as if wounded by some invisible arrow. She looked down on me and her smile wilted to nothing. She mouthed some words to me, or maybe she said them, but the reality I was thrown into was a quiet one. She brushed a tear from her eye and lowered herself down the window, and I minute later I heard my door slam. I knelt over and gave up, looking to the stars above. Explosions dotted the sky as naval day concluded with me lying lifeless on my roof.

  Sitting above my rent-controlled, one bedroom, flea infested apartment that housed not only me, but also a fruit basket of the best and worst memories I can remember, I weighed my options. I flicked my lighter again and took another sidelong glance at my soil bed of memories. I sighed deep, and walked over to the flowers and pocked my lighter. I picked up a poppy and fitted it snuggle on the outer-edge of the box, then turned around, feeling a mix of regret and bitter finality. She stood in front of me with one rose, smiling without hesitation and giving off an aura of a woman with her heart set on something,