When she was four or five
Her grandmother took her out to the garden at dusk
To deadhead the roses
So they would make more flowers
She could barely manipulate the secateurs
The huge, moist, floppy blooms fell to the ground
Snowing petals everywhere
Until sometimes only the powdery stamens remained
Then they floated the good ones
In a giant green glass bowl full of water
And set it on the mahogany dining room table
She wondered whose heads they were
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