The Distance

I sit alone at my table.

Around me, families, couples, groups of friends.

My sandwich untouched. The plate is white.

There's a small puddle of oil from the olives.

Across the room, a mother is cutting

her son's food into smaller pieces.

He's old enough to do it himself.

But she keeps cutting. He lets her.

Her hands are steady. Careful.

His hands are in his lap.

I realize I'm angry about this.

The way her hands keep moving.

The way his hands stay still.

The food breaking into smaller pieces,

like she's protecting him from something,

or holding onto something, or teaching him

that this is what care looks like—

her hands doing the work,

his hands waiting.

My sandwich stays untouched.

I'm not hungry. I'm watching

the distance between people sitting

right next to each other, and

I'm angry because I recognize it,

because I know what it means

to be alone with a plate of untouched food,

watching her hands move,

his hands stay still.