The Folding

I watched him tear the sugar packets open.

His hands knew the ritual—

each empty packet folded meticulous,

placed on the saucer. A token

of something. Care. Precision.

His coffee cooling while he stayed

with the ceremony, the way he made

each fold a small decision.

I recognized the argument—

refusal of haste, refusal of waste,

the way he wouldn't let the moment taste

of carelessness or accident.

When he looked up, I looked away.

I didn't want him to know

that I'd watched the careful show

his hands had made that day.

That I understood the small

insistence in his folding,

the way his hands were holding

the moment like it mattered at all.