The window box hung on the fire escape and it held tomatoes. Or geraniums. Or herbs that the woman in 4B used for cooking. The window box was the farm of the tenement. Six inches of dirt and a fire escape railing and whatever the sun could reach between the buildings. The window box was the garden of a person who had no garden.

My neighbor on East Seventh Street grew tomatoes in her window box from April to October. She said the tomatoes from the window box tasted better than the store because the window box was closer to the street and the street gave the tomatoes character. She said a tomato that hears traffic tastes different from a tomato that hears nothing. I believed her. The tomatoes were excellent.

The window box was a flag. Red geraniums meant Italian. White curtains and herbs meant Greek. Marigolds meant the woman in the apartment had read a book about marigolds and decided her fire escape needed color. The window box told you who lived behind the window. The window box was the personality test of the building.

In winter the window box was empty. The soil froze. The geraniums died. The tomato stakes stuck up out of the dirt like crosses in a graveyard. The empty window box in January was the saddest thing on the fire escape. But the woman in 4B never took the box down. She said taking down the box means you have given up on spring. The box stays because spring is coming.

The new buildings do not have fire escapes. The new buildings have sealed windows and central air and a balcony if you are lucky. You cannot hang a window box on a sealed window. You cannot grow tomatoes in an apartment that does not open to the air. The window box needed two things. A window that opens and a person who believed six inches of dirt was enough. Both are getting harder to find.

See also: Fire Escape, Clothesline