My coffee mug slipped this morning

My coffee mug slipped this morning.

I caught it.

The muscle memory was faster

than thought.

But for a fraction of a second,

I watched it fall,

and I didn't reach,

and that's what I keep thinking about—

that moment where I could have,

and I didn't,

and then I did,

and everything was fine.

Except now I'm back there,

in another room,

another time,

watching something slide

off the edge of the table,

and this time I'm standing too far away,

or too surprised,

or too paralyzed by the fact

that I could see it coming,

could see the exact moment

when it stopped being safe,

and I watched it anyway.

The fall takes forever

when you're really watching.

Every inch of air

becomes something to measure.

Every rotation

becomes something to document.

And then it hits.

And then you can't do anything

about what you didn't do.

I saved the mug today.

I couldn't save the other thing.

I don't know why the difference matters,

but it does.

It matters so much

that I'm still thinking about

the half-second where I could have

changed the outcome

but didn't.

My hands are still catching things

that haven't fallen yet.