The Waitress
Meeting someone who still believes in the goodness of humanity feels almost mythical in a world that has taught her to trust only what lies north of her own borders. She grew up with the nation above her as her reference point — its language, its culture, its shadow. And yet, when she looked at me, there was no hesitation, no fear of difference. There was only curiosity, the kind that bridges continents without needing permission.
I spoke to her in Italian, the language of my grandparents, the language that still carries the warmth of Sunday kitchens and old-country stories. She answered in Spanish, soft and melodic, like she was letting me into a world she didn’t offer to just anyone. Somehow, between her Spanish and my Italian, we found a rhythm — two languages dancing around each other, meeting in the middle like they had been waiting for this moment.
She was adorable in the way she tried to make the conversation work. At one point she typed in Spanish and let Google translate it into English, laughing at the robotic voice that didn’t match her sweetness. I should have kissed her then — not out of impulse, but out of recognition. Recognition that something rare was happening. Recognition that this was one of those moments that could have rewritten the rest of my life.
If I had taken that step, maybe we would have started a conversation that didn’t end. Maybe we would have walked a path that led us down an aisle instead of back to our separate lives. An Italian American man and a Mexican mamasita — two worlds meeting not by accident, but by alignment.
I imagine the life that could have followed: a home filled with the aromas of both cultures, a table where Italian hand gestures met Mexican warmth, children who carried the bloodlines of Italy, Hungary, Spain, and Mexico all in one heartbeat. A new generation shaped by Western grit and Southwestern soul, a living testament to the beauty of crossing borders — not with passports, but with hearts.
It’s strange how a single moment can hold the weight of an entire future. Stranger still how easily it can slip away.
But even now, when I think of her, I don’t feel regret as much as I feel possibility — the reminder that connection doesn’t need perfection, only courage. And maybe next time, I won’t let the moment pass.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
