What's Left

In the garage,

under the boxes,

behind the Christmas lights

that haven't worked in four years,

I found it.

The chain is rust now.

Just rust.

The handlebars are orange

with corrosion,

the paint underneath

so old

I can't remember

what color it actually was.

I could barely recognize it

as the thing I used to ride,

as the thing that meant

speed,

freedom,

the specific kind of happiness

that only comes

when you're moving away

from something.

I touched it

and the rust flaked off

into my palm,

fine dust,

orange dust,

the kind of dust

that doesn't wash off easily,

that stains your skin,

that proves

you touched something

dying.

I sat down on the concrete floor.

The dust was still on my hand.

I didn't wipe it off.

Twenty years of moisture,

of seasons,

of neglect,

of just sitting

while everything oxidized,

while the metal learned

how to break down,

how to become

something other

than what it was,

how to return

to something smaller,

something the earth

will eventually

claim.

I didn't throw it away.

I put it back

where I found it,

under the boxes,

behind the lights.

Let it keep corroding.

Let it keep becoming

whatever comes next.

I washed my hands

but the dust remains,

a faint stain

under my fingernails,

proof

that I was there,

that I touched

what's left,

that I know

what it means

to break down

slowly,

alone.