One cup left on the counter.
The plant watered twice.
Laundry folded, then unfolded,
as if it might remember
a different shape.
Outside, the hedge holds its line
despite the wind.
The world is very good
at pretending nothing happened.
This is how something leaves.
Not all at once.
Just enough space
to notice what remains.
Veronica Tucker is an emergency medicine and addiction medicine physician, a mother of three, and a lifelong New Englander. Her writing explores the intersections of medicine, motherhood, memory, and the human experience. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee with work appearing in ONE ART: a journal of poetry, The Berlin Literary Review, and Rust & Moth, among others. Her debut chapbook is forthcoming this spring. She can be found at www.veronicatuckerwrites.com and on Instagram @veronicatuckerwrites.