The Radiator

I drove past the building.

It looked smaller. Everything does

when you go back.

The radiator is still under the window,

still rust in the same pattern—

a stain that never changes.

The fire escape is still there.

A kid was sitting on it.

Not mine. Not even close.

Some other kid, somewhere else,

sitting on the escape

where I used to sit at twenty-two

and think I was becoming someone.

The rust hasn't changed.

That's what got me. The rust.

Like time didn't move in that building.

Like it's been waiting for me

to grow up and come back

and see how small it all was.

I was going to be different then.

I was going to be brilliant

or dangerous or at least interesting.

I was going to sit on that fire escape

and become someone my past self

wouldn't recognize.

And I did become someone else.

Just not the way I meant.

Just slower. Just by attrition.

Just by living in other buildings,

other rooms, other versions of trying.

The kid jumped. Moved to the edge.

They were maybe nine.

They had their whole life ahead

to sit on that escape and imagine

who they'd become.

I didn't stay to see if they'd become it.

I drove past. The radiator

stayed the same. The rust pattern

held its shape.

And I went home to my own apartment,

my own smaller fire escape,

my own smaller dreams

about becoming.