Petals like Pinwheels

I've finally parted with my bouquet. When we returned from our honeymoon and it was hanging on by a thread in a vase of stagnant water, I dumped the water out and returned it to the window. In the past week the stems had begun to mold, white threads like spider's silk cottoning between the withered heads of roses and chrysanthemums. I held it where it was bound still by the ribbon from my wedding dress, lifting the wilted purple sprays and letting them slump again where they had dried.

So I took the bouquet outside and up the little slope of our backyard, which is more like a thicket than something suited for mowing. I stepped through the maple saplings and honeysuckle heavy with berries to the hollow tree stump and tossed my flowers inside, feeling like a girl inventing superstition again, burying something in hopes that it would grow into a new mystery.

It was harder to do than I thought it would be.