Rearview

I drove past the old apartment for the first time

since moving. The street looked compressed,

smaller than I remembered it. I kept checking

the rearview mirror like the building might

disappear if I stopped looking.

In the glass: the whole block, then just

a slice of the storefront where I waited

for the bus every morning, cold coffee

in my hands. The reflection shifted

with the angle of the mirror, depending

on how much of the past I was willing

to let into the frame.

Distance is negotiable. You can make

a place bigger or smaller by how you

refuse to look at it. I could have

pulled over, gone back up the stairs.

But I kept driving, kept the mirror

angled just right so the building

stayed small and manageable.

It's easier that way. Easier to compress

three years into a rearview reflection,

to let the distance turn it into something

I can hold without it breaking.

By the end of the block, I couldn't see

the building anymore. I didn't pull over.

I kept driving, and the mirror showed me

only what was ahead, which was nothing

I recognized.