I was at a self-deportation the other day. Someone who’d been in this country for decades decided it was time to leave, even at the price of breaking up the family. So, surrounded by friends and family, they did.

I’m not sure what verb to use for my presence at this scene. I was present, but not wholly present, engaged, but not fully engaged. I had things to do that day, and couldn’t afford the luxury of wholehearted empathy or grief. Did I observe? Bear witness? Psychologically flee the scene? A little bit of all of the above.

The English language lacks a word for the act of observing, but deliberately holding oneself aloof from, another person’s misfortune. It’s too bad, because self-deportation and family dissolution are quickly becoming commonplaces. We can’t be fully present for all of them. So the word we lack is a word we need.

I rarely work on Sundays, but had to go in today. On my way in, I meet a friend, a Spanish-speaking migrant who, like so many, does landscaping work in town.

“I have to work today,” I complain. “I hate working Sundays.” It’s a tone-deaf comment. He has to work himself.

”I work every day,” he rejoins matter-of-factly. “I have no day of rest.”