Deadheading
The seedlings first started growing from your nipples. You never knew that could even happen. Can I just pluck them out? you asked me, but they were too deeply rooted in your breasts, straight into your rib cage.
Now, the seedlings are everywhere. The doctor says they have taken over your internal organs, your uterus, kidneys, lungs. Every time you cough, I can hear the gentle rustling, like wind blowing through grass. You put your palm to your mouth, collect the leaflets you hacked out from the depths of your chest, place them carefully in a dish on the bedside table.
It’s the sun you stand in, the doctor says. The warmth you gather in your body every day. It nurtures life within you, even life you don’t want. Don’t drink too much water. The plants are growing too fast already. Don’t walk in the sun.
But that’s the thing about you. You’re so used to growing and raising and nourishing. Even the cat is fatter around you. I know you feed him milk and curd and butter when I’m not looking. I pretend I don’t see the satisfied smacking of his lips or the white drops on his whiskers. Even now, he nibbles at the grass on your arm before curling up next to you.
You don’t like being told not to do something. This world is yours, you say. Why not walk where you belong? You want to walk all the way, as much as you can, when you can.
Small steps, I tell you. First, try sitting up from under the weight of the stems. And don’t hide behind the leaves.
Where there were soft salt-and-pepper tufts on your head, seedlings have taken over, now putting forth shoots in your brain. That’s probably why you can’t remember much. Your dreams and reality are one. You speak of gardening when you’re awake and dream of gardening when you’re asleep. But you remember to smile at me every time you see me. Your eyes glow past the seedlings.
You tell me to plant some turmeric in you when you’re buried. You promise me lifelong turmeric supply.
I don’t want turmeric that much, I say. I don’t want that much turmeric.
You laugh and say, Sometimes, you just take what you get. Turmeric is auspicious. It protects.
What’s left to protect? I ask.
Still, you want to give me what little of yourself is left as a talisman. It’s a gift I cannot refuse.
In return, you make me promise that I’ll continue to snip away these seedlings. You tell me life isn’t just whatever is living. You tell me to prune the faded, scruffy flowers, the crisp, brown leaves, to make way for more life. Healthy life. This is how we tell plants, Don’t just make more seeds. Focus on making flowers. Grow well.
Seedlings sprout from your eyes. Two, three little leaves in every sprig. I cannot root them out. I’m afraid I’ll unplug an eyeball. I snip carefully, making sure your lashes are intact. You always ask for the mirror when I’m done. I ask if I could take a picture of you, but you refuse. You don’t want to face yourself through my eyes, you tell me. You’d rather fill your eyes with everyone else.
These seedlings, they look so delicate, but they’re growing faster than I can get to them, aggressive. My hands are shaking as I clip one small leaf at a time. I almost can’t see some of them, so I squint hard. When you look at me, I smile, trying to make it seem effortless. The seedlings are disappearing, see? You feel less heavy, don’t you?
I feel so much better, you say, with a smile every time. Your gums are overrun with plantlets, your teeth green. You chew on them slowly and swallow, hoping they’d leave your body that way. You’re always at the top of the world. It’s always a good morning. You’re always doing A-okay. Thriving.
There are parts of you I can’t reach with my shears. Not for lack of trying. You’ve begun guarding a little of yourself against me, with a knowing smile and a touch that tells me to rest. That doesn’t stop me from trying when you’re asleep. At night, I shine a light into your open mouth, trying to catch what I can, as gently as I can, through tears and panic. I peek behind the uvula and find little shoots looking up, trying to find the sun.
One night, when you’re asleep, vines grow tight around your heart. When you stop breathing, the seedlings fall away, all at once. It looks to me like you’re still breathing.
Everything’s over. All life has ended, the doctors say.
But where I kiss you one last time, a curcuma flower blooms, vibrant and pink, like a surprise you saved for me within.
Neeru Nagarajan (@poonaikaari) is a bisexual Tamil writer from India. Her work has appeared in CRAFT, The Maine Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Detroit with her husband and two cats, where she’s working on her novel. Online, she lives at neerunagarajan.com.