I always used to wonder when exactly it would happen. When would I start to look older? Just when, exactly, would it be undeniable? When, exactly, would the bloom be off the rose?
The saddest two words in the entire of the English language are, for me, “gone by”. Being a Spring baby, and having lived my entire life under the spell of the briefest-lived blossoms and fragrances of all the natural world, I am deeply affected by the passing of these long-awaited flowers. When they arrive, I can scarcely believe that they are back; I watch them daily, noticing the subtle changes in scent, color, structure, robustness… I watch them reach their peak, I celebrate them and delight in their beauty. And then I watch their slow, almost imperceptible demise. I can tell exactly how many days a Lily-of-the-Valley has been in my vase since it was picked; the smell changes from green, intense and fresh to warm and settled, then finally to a definite ‘turning’. I can tell when the blooms are finally past their prime and yielding to their inevitable fate. Decay becomes evident, and then there comes the moment when it is undeniable. And it is, in some real way, always a tiny heartbreak for me.
I wrote these last two paragraphs last year, in 2025, at the age of 62. And I wrote my previous post last month. Yeah, I’ve been wondering when the other shoe would drop for a while now, but I only began to put it into words last year. Today I can summarize my own aging thusly: My 50s were still within the realm of youth, and now, in my 60s, there is no gray area anymore (except for the roots of my hair, which I shall continue to color for as long as I have the stamina and budget).
This rose continues to enjoy her place in the garden, however she has begun to contemplate on her return to the soil.
The Hillhouse 