The Gap

The child's hand wouldn't open.

Plastic fingers curled against her palm

like she was already making a fist

before the prosthetist even showed her

how the thumb articulates, how pressure

on the socket makes the wrist hinge.

She reached for the block—bright yellow, small—

and the arm followed her intention

but stopped short. Her face went tight.

Concentration. Not anger yet.

He said it takes time.

She tried again. Missed.

The real hand, the other one,

shot out and grabbed it.

Problem solved the old way.

I watched her choose the familiar.

Later, in the parking lot, I kept thinking

about that gap—not the distance between

her fingers and the block, but the distance

between what her brain wanted her body to do

and what her body could actually do.

That lag. That learning.

That moment where intention and

the made thing didn't sync up.

She'll get there. He said so.

She'll reach and reach until

the gap closes, until the plastic becomes

automatic, becomes hers.

But today she knows.

Today she knows there's a difference.