I flip pages of a three-ring binder while standing at the counter; my orbital path has never crossed this shop until now; my brother Mark was still alive this time yesterday; the bouquets have names that speak their own language; my dad and the others are looking through binders too; Mark’s body is at the morgue; I want to be drenched in flower musk, breathing it to bind what’s broken; today is April Fool’s, but all jokes have become decrepit; the bouquets with roses are too neat, too coiled, too circular; why did Mark choose to leave us?; if only I could will vines to take over this building, all buildings, everywhere, inside and out; maybe we should go with Peace Garden? Quiet Grace?; Mark is going to be twenty-five forever; my dad and the others are staring at the window; I am a shallow, brittle pond; the coroner is working on the toxicology report; the florist needs an answer but there is no rush; I wish this wasn’t happening; the undertaker will start preparing the body after it gets delivered to the funeral home, which will be tomorrow or the day after; I need to complete the order but can’t stop time; I want flowers that smell like the leis we got in Hawaii when I was ten, and Mark, eleven; I think we only need an easel spray and a casket spray—that’s a no on the wreathe; Mark likes—I mean, liked tulips, but…; what mercy makes flower petals soft and cool to the touch, like a sacred balm?; I don’t see tulips in the binder and can’t push the question out; could Mark still be alive, somewhere, in the multiverse?; we stumble toward an answer for the clerk; my debit card is in my hand; I get in my dad’s way to pay; a fire has kindled behind my face; the total is over five hundred dollars; is Mark really dead? but I told so many people yesterday; it was I talked about, thought about, cried about, all night long; the POS system makes a jagged noise; it’s almost done: I sign my name on the merchant copy slip; my dad’s hand claps my shoulder; my vision is cloudy, and I blink: tears; “The flowers,” the clerk says, breaking the silence crushing me toward an event horizon, “will be beautiful.”
Nicki Youngsma is a writer and illustrator, and her service work includes stewarding educational nonprofits and raising young people. Her personal essays and prose poetry have appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Emerge Literary Journal, Unbroken, and elsewhere. She is currently working on a memoir project. Find her at nickiyoungsma.com.