Sadness.
I can't enter into the sadness of my breakfast date. The hands of friends are tied in the face of grief. I have not lost my mother. I cannot make anything better, I am unable to help. My feeble attempt at comfort is second-rate pancakes at the greasy spoon on broadway and main. If only I could make it said in a hug. I am a clumsy friend.
But this isn't even about me.
