There is a drawer in her
kitchen that still holds
his favorite mug, a pack
of tea he never
finished, and a note he
wrote on a Tuesday she
cannot remember. She has
moved everything else in
the apartment twice. But
that drawer stays the
same. Not because she is
waiting. Because some
parts of a person need a
door that stays closed,
not to keep the past
in, but to keep the
present from pretending it
never happened.