The years pass without ceremony.

They do not always announce themselves.
Sometimes they slip by like quiet weather,
like afternoons we cannot later recall
except by the way the light
once rested against a wall.

Time moves like autumn wind,
unannounced,
persistent,
tender in its own indifferent way.

A milkweed stands in a field,
having grown tall without noticing
the exact moment it became mature.
Its green has deepened,
its stem stiffened with understanding.

Now the wind arrives,
and the pods open
not in grief,
but in readiness.

Each silky seed loosens its hold,
lifted into a wide, unknown air.
Nothing about this is an ending;
it is a continuation of life.

So it is with us.

Aging is not the closing of a door
but the widening of a horizon.
It invites us to keep walking
even when the map has changed,
to trust that curiosity is a form of youth
that does not fade.

We continue on
by choosing wonder intentionally,
by saying yes to what
we once passed by.

By touching the familiar
as though it has just arrived
in our hands
for the first time.

We open our hearts again,
not because it is easy,
but because it is still possible.

New voices enter our lives,
new laughter finds its place,
and we discover we are not finished becoming.

Growing older is not a judgment.
It is an invitation,
a season finally spacious enough
for adventures we were once too busy,
too afraid,
or too young to see or notice.

Life does not retreat with the years;
it deepens.
It asks to be lived more fully,
more bravely,
more awake.

And so, we live,
not backward,
not mourning what has flown off,
but standing like the milkweed in the field,
rooted, open,
releasing ourselves into the wind
that carries us toward another dawning.

Michele Luckenbaugh is a patient advocate.