I catch a whiff of childhood, the little girl of my memory, hand in hand with her mother, a cherub with a dazzling smile.

The woman of my middle years I know best, confidence encircling her like perfume, and stumbling head over heel into good fortune and follies.

I feel tender toward my old self, the woman with the weather-worn face, faltering steps, swaying from side to side, and lifelong stored-up insights.

I am reminded of a bunch of dandelions, turning from golden blossoms into fluffy silver seeds about to be winged away by a boisterous wind in directions unknown.