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Very early every morning my great-aunt, still in her bathrobe and bedroom slippers, goes out into the yard to see the flowers. 

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Slowly, taking great care with each step, she walks first to the row of azaleas by the fence stopping for a long time at each one, then to the camellias which are almost gone where she brushes away the dead flowers, then to the dogwood where she pulls away several strands of Spanish moss, then to the wisteria where she leans down to smell them, then to the pear tress, then to the lily bed, to the hydrangeas, to the magnolia fuscata where the petals fall loosely into her hand.  

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And then she stops and looking back over all of them she nods.  Finally she turns and begins the long walk back towards the house.  And when she sits quietly in the the rocking chair by the window, the hem of her bathrobe is still wet with dew.