I wake up this morning still living, though 
last night I dreamed about my funeral. 
I was thinking what I’d want my husband 

to pick out for me to wear. Half asleep, I find
myself rumbling about in the mental closets 
of my life looking for just the right thing. 

My little-girl cotton dresses, my wedding gown, 
or that chocolate-brown velvet dress. I think 
my wedding dress is in the attic, 

and the midnight-blue silk shantung outfit 
I wore to our son’s wedding, maybe it’s 
there, too. In death, I imagine, I could fit 

into any of these. Like an angel, I rise 
from my bed, ready to make my travel 
plans, though I have no idea 

when my flight is scheduled, or perhaps I’ll 
go by train. For both my husband and me, 
our prepaid-funeral arrangements include 

transport, if we should die in some other 
locality. We’ve thought of everything,
even updating our passports, just in case.