The backpack sat by the
door exactly where she
had dropped it at six,
still half-open, still
holding the whole day.
She kept meaning to
unpack it.
Instead she stood in the
kitchen holding a glass
of water she hadn't
sipped, feeling tomorrow
line up behind her like
a queue of people with
questions.
The bag wasn't heavy.
It had never been the
bag. It was everything
she hadn't said at
work, folded small and
zipped inside.
She knelt down, took out
one thing — just the
keys — and set them in
the bowl. The rest could
wait until morning.
Some nights, one thing
is the whole victory.