Invisible Backpack

by Veronica Tucker

I carry it everywhere—

straps digging in

just enough to notice,

never enough to explain.

Image credit: Kevin Wenning on Unsplash

It isn’t heavy,

until it is.

Until a word,

a sound,

an ordinary Tuesday

adds another stone

to a bag

already full

of things I didn’t pack

but can’t put down.

No one asks

what’s inside.

It looks small,

manageable,

like something I chose.

But it isn’t the size

that wears you down.

It’s the never-setting-it-down,

the constant pull

even when your hand

sare empty.

***

Veronica Tucker

Veronica Tucker is an emergency medicine and addiction medicine physician whose poetry explores the intersections of medicine, motherhood, and humanity. A lifelong New Englander, she weaves themes of trauma, resilience, and fleeting time into her work, drawing from her career in the emergency department. She is married with three children and two dogs, balancing the chaos of medicine with her love for travel, fitness, running, and family. When she’s not writing or working, she can usually be found savoring a quiet moment with a matcha latte, reflecting on the beauty in life’s smallest details.