The Art of Leaving

Martha stood in the center of their bedroom, the beige **hat** in her hands feeling heavier than it should. David's hat — the one he'd worn to every chemotherapy appointment, the brim curled from years of nervous twisting. She hadn't touched it since the funeral.

An **orange** rolled slowly across the floor, escaped from the grocery bag she'd dropped earlier. The absurdity of it struck her: here she was, confronting three years of widowhood, and her immediate crisis was a piece of fruit migrating toward the closet.

Their **cat**, Barnaby, wound through her legs, purring with maddening normalcy. The animal had adapted to David's absence with infuriating grace. Martha envied him.

She pulled the bottle of **vitamin** D supplements from her pocket — David's final prescription, the one he'd never picked up. The doctor had said it might help with his fatigue. That was six weeks before the pneumonia took him. The pharmacy had filled it automatically; the bottle sat on her bedside table like an accusation.

That afternoon, she drove to the old **baseball** field where they'd met. She sat in the stands, watching Little League practice, remembering how David had coached third base wearing that ridiculous hat, shouting encouragement to kids who couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. He'd been terrible at baseball, wonderful at believing in other people.

Martha placed the hat on the empty seat beside her. The vitamins went into her purse. The orange from the kitchen floor sat in her pocket, warm against her hip.

"You don't have to carry everything," she whispered to no one.

Barnaby would need dinner. She'd feed him that real chicken David had insisted on, the expensive brand. Then she'd call the pharmacy about cancelling the automatic refills. Then maybe — maybe — she'd eat the orange herself.

Small things. The way forward was composed of small things.