The Things We Miss
Jasmine Payne

She stirs honey into her coffee,
thinking about the matcha she could have ordered instead.
So caught in the thought,
she doesn’t even taste it—
the rich Colombian beans, hand-harvested,
ground to a fine dust,
delivered to her cup
to offer a warm, steady comforting rush for the day.

She drives to work,
idling in a slow spill of cars
at the corner by the riverwalk,
Brake lights bloom red, one after another,
a quiet chain of urgency.

She thinks of how she could have turned sooner,
fingers tightening on the wheel,
the clock blinking forward in small, unforgiving increments.
So flustered by the thought of being late,
she misses it—
the brief, gentle interruption:
a mother duck stepping off the curb,
feathers catching the light like brushed silk,
ducklings trailing behind her
in a soft, uneven line,
their tiny feet tapping the pavement
like scattered drops of rain.

Cars wait.
Engines hum.
The world, for a moment, makes room.
They hurry across the street.
They must have somewhere to be, too
She doesn’t see it. But she could have.