Preparation
By Chelsea Bunn

On the morning of her death, it is warm
outside, spring has just settled in
around us, red tulips, red lips,
red umbrellas opening and closing.

This is what I notice: the flowers
coming to life, clear and eager
on their sharp front lawn. Only,
this hasn’t happened yet. I am

getting ahead of myself. First, the museum visit
in a wheelchair. Next, the chair in the bathtub,
the chair in the kitchen, the chair beside
her bed, then just the bed.

No getting up, no walks outside, no moving,
no one in the room, everyone in the room,
everyone on the phone, everyone at the table,
no one talking, no one listening, everyone

looking away. Then she hears music,
asks her oldest son where she is, a garden
in Florence? Her mother is there, too.
Then the morning will come, and I’m sure

it will be nothing like I’ve imagined,
it won’t even be morning, how
could I know? This is what I call
preparation, I tell myself (this is all

a lie) if I can just lay
the groundwork for the moment,
if I can see the tulips, the wet blades of grass,
the family, I will be ready.