You might be standing in line at the bank,
Perhaps taking out the trash after midnight,
the moon somehow too bright.
If you can predict the quick tears, the tight throat,
that’s not the ambush. That’s just grief.
The ambush comes when you’re laughing.
Or when you’re eating popcorn.
Or when you drive by a parking lot
where once you practiced parallel parking
with the one who is no longer here.
The ambush might come when you’ve just
put on mascara. Or when you’re talking
on the phone to customer service.
Or when you’re dusting the piano
where once your loved one sat
and practiced the theme
to Pirates of the Caribbean
over and over and over. And over.
And then you’re crying again.
Not that you mind it.
Not that you’re surprised.
You don’t even apologize anymore.
This is what happens now.
It’s what love looks like.
You call it life.