Confession of a Paraplegic

At 5 I was convinced I was a flower whose vocation was imitating their final hysterical wail once Winter awoke from its anorexia. I pleaded my case with a botanist whose seamstress wife consented to stitch a tutu of Kadupul flowers, like a fairy godmother warning of their death at dawn. At 16 I finally danced their goodbye, petals whisked off as if molted layers of skin and only when at the end I stood naked did the concept of death have definition.

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