What the street remembers

The paint

was flaking off

in long pieces,

and underneath

was yellow,

bright and faded,

and underneath that

was gray,

something older,

something that had been

there longer

than most of the street.

Four or five colors

if you looked close,

a timeline

written in layers,

each one

painted over

the last,

each one

deciding

that what came before

needed to be

covered,

needed to be

changed,

needed to be

something

new.

The hydrant

had stood here

through all of it—

the decisions

to paint,

the decisions

to paint again,

the forgetting

of what it used to be,

the not caring

anymore

what color

it was,

just

that it was

red,

or yellow,

or gray,

depending

on who

looked

and when.

I ran my finger

along the edge

where the red

met the yellow,

felt the ridge

of paint buildup,

felt the time

between each

decision.

The street

has changed

how many times?

The building next to it

is gone.

The corner store

closed.

The people

who walked past

when it was yellow

are probably

somewhere else now,

probably

don't remember

what color

it was.

But the hydrant

remembers,

or carries the memory

in its layers,

in the paint

that was decided upon,

applied,

left to fade,

left to chip,

left to become

a palimpsest

of all the choices

the city made

about what mattered,

what needed

covering,

what could be

buried

under red.

I walked away,

and the hydrant

stayed there,

still holding

its colors,

still

remembering.