Before the family doctor, the radiologist, the surgeon, and the oncologist informed her in sober tones of the worst, she had already suspected, as many people in her situation do, that it was time to get her affairs in order. She began taking photographs of the blazing magenta azaleas, the feathery white rhododendrons, and the fragrant lilacs that grew along the fence dividing her property from her neighbor’s. They were her favorite May-flowering shrubs, and before they shed their blossoms handing over attention to the less noble petunias and zinnias—annuals that heralded the summer—she wanted to make sure she had a memento to look at during the months that would follow. She was a practical woman and knew what to expect. It was doubtful that she would see another May. But at least she would have the pictures in the difficulties of December and their beauty would give her peace.