The sadness does not come when you expect it to.
It does not come at the funeral
or when poems are read and prayers recited.
It does not come when they lower the body into the grave,
spread the ashes in the river.
It does not come with the casseroles, or
the ready-made meals, or the frozen lasagna
in microwavable containers.
It does not come with the past tense.
Or the empty spot at the table, the
miscalculations in carpools, the
extra box of rice with the Chinese take-out.
It does not even come with the flatline
or the knock on your door
“there’s been an accident.”

It comes on a Thursday, weeks or months later,
when you are trying to make a smoothie
but a single ice cube gets jammed and refuses to blend.
The blender screams the strained hum
of blades trying to spin in vain,
but the contents remain frozen and still.