Deadheading Maria McLeod We did not deadhead the rhododendrons last summer, and now, this spring, their dusty blackened flowers crown the new green leaves, obscuring the flush of fuchsia to emerge from hidden buds, a disappointing pairing, when we could have, with a little time and effort, made the return of their flowers so much more lovely and unencumbered. We didn’t know then what we know now of the body — how easily we falter like leaves on the forest floor I confused for lace not realizing such delicacy was due to decomposition. It’s a path unwittingly taken toward departure, a slow, cellular sluffing, a loss not realized until someone calls it up onscreen and points to what’s gone awry. This is how death becomes you before you’re ready to give in to it like dried flowers dropped into bath water you wear its tired beauty as you sink into the porcelain, petals clinging to your hair.
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