The older woman walks ever so slowly down the block towards me. She moved here to be with her family, the children and grandchildren, and lives with them now. Her movements are a walking meditation. We often greet each other with good news of the day, which amounts to the weather. Our talk of climate is both mundane and enlivened; not an easily dismissed greeting, but the truly best news of the day. I see her reach out and touch the purple grasses, and slide her hand along the feathery tip. “What a gorgeous day” she announces as she nears the rosemary. “So Beautiful” I reply, and it feels like I am singing. She stops. I ask if she is enjoying her time here. “Just wonderful. And this weather. Sure beats Chicago.” I feel the sun on my skin and imagine my own aging body would ache more when frozen. “It’s good to be warm,” a surprising comment coming from me, as I easily get too hot, and am generally disturbed by the sun. How silly. And she has started up again, brushing against the Willow Wattle and its dancing blue purple silver leaves. “I’m sorry that is in your way,” I call out to her. She stops, turns toward the shrub and reaches out to it, tenderly touching the leaves with her hands, petting them. “I actually ran into it on purpose,” she says, and laughs. And I think, don’t we all?