Lately, I’ve been paying attention to how my 80-year-old hands look. Intensely. Noticing how the distended veins look like roots of trees exposed on the paths of many hikes I’ve taken these many years.

I run the palm of my right hand over the top of my left hand, feeling the softness being that of babies. So soft, I ooooooh and aaaaaah when I touch their hands, feeling babies grab mine.

Because I am a flower gardener, who’d rather feel mother earth soil (soul) than that of gloves, I rarely paint my fingernails, although I have succumbed to pedicures these past five years, a gift from my second daughter, Megan.

For my 80^th birthday bash my granddaughter Emily paints a light pink glow to my perfectly curved nails. The roots of love seen like polish.

It’s the first day of fall, 2026, as I walk into a field of golden rod, neighbors of deep blue-purple asters, their beauty catching my gray-blue eyes for years, looking for them as I ride by, on my bike, scooter or car.

I think of how fields of golden rod roots have suffocated all other wildflowers; how hard I must pull or mattock the older ones to save day lilies or asters who are sometimes saved by tractors mowing down golden rod on the edges of country roads.

The mattock assists my hands pleasure to uproot five or six wild purple tall gorgeous asters, then my hands can pull the root ball free, be transplanted to my flower garden with mighty pleasure – to remind me that I cannot remove the wrinkles of aging like I do each morning to my bed sheets and blankets. But I can be greatfull.