Late breaking news

It is all small,

the fraction of sunlight on the living room floor where the dog is sleeping

the slamming door, my teenage son bursting through with the news of his day,

the emails and the oil changes and the pickup line

sandwiched by a mug of hot coffee with just enough cream,

and the grocery store bottle of wine, poured into a kid’s plastic cup

because we accidentally broke all the wine glasses.

The cashier with perfect teeth who said you have a great laugh

so tender it was to be seen, heard

that I cried in the parking lot cradling my gallon of 2 percent milk.

I was just thinking about you, those words in text

the sliver of consciousness where my husband reaches for my arm before he disappears back into sleep again.

I turn on the tv and the news is all terrible,

but on our dead-end street, it is Indian summer

the neighbor’s tree is fiery orange and blazing amber and their little girl has a pink backpack with a unicorn on it.

Minor, our heart aches and breaks,

the comings and the goings,

the little deals we make

all the invisible triumphs and tiny pleasures

but they are all our riches, they are the currency of our day.

I tried a plum this morning, my son says grinning, and I loved it

the world does not take note,

this is not late breaking news but here, in the kitchen, it is the headline story.