I yanked those intrusive, hungry weeds from around my plants. I slowed to gaze on the latest bloom on one of my day lilies.
This one was of deep pink and orange hues, one bloom, delicately ruffled petals. Then I looked at my hands: liver spots, wrinkles, scars, callouses, swollen joints from a life lived to the fullest—hard labor, being an outdoors person, loving and providing. To the flower and my hands, I said, “How lovely you are/These few, brief, magical hours- “Only to the daylily, with a wistful smile, “Daylily, don’t go.” To myself, “I have now.”