Matt Galleta

These are the miracles

I call in sick to work
and take the wife and baby
for a drive.

In the car,
while playing with her toy,
the baby laughs
for the first time ever:

a high-pitched,

one of
the best moments
of my life.

I think of
how lucky it was
I was there.

I was supposed
to be at work.

I would have missed it.

If there’s a god,
these are the miracles
he performs.

Forget resurrections,
forget the parting of seas;

just think of
a child

her father
to hear it.


I find it
at the bottom
of a dusty
cardboard box
while unpacking
from the move:

a beat-up
cassette mixtape
made for me
by an old
high school

two sides of
angry young punk bands
yelling about
their convictions.

I take it
out to the car,
the only thing left
with a tape deck
for miles.

I want to know
if the anger
is still there,
the fire
preserved on that tape
all these years.

But when I slip
the tape in,
it doesn’t play.

It clicks
and whirs,
but no sound
comes from the
car’s speakers.

I hit
the eject button.

Nothing happens.

The tape is
jammed now,
and I stab at
the buttons
on the stereo
as I idle
in the driveway
and the sun
begins to sink
into the horizon,

but there’s
no way
to rewind.


Matt Galletta lives in upstate NY with his wife, daughter, and cats. He brews his own beer so he never has to leave the house. Find out more at

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