My elderly mother seldom leaves the house. She can stand in a fashion for a few minutes in front of the kitchen sink (her choice!) or sit in the car as I'm taking her somewhere. Almost all of my floral efforts in the yard are for her enjoyment.
Out the kitchen window, I have a bench with potted flowers, a birdbath, and two chairs that I move about from time to time as if waiting for conversation. Still very eclectic with the flower choices with self sown impatiens, celosia, periwinkle, a topiary standard rosemary and a few random pots of whatever takes my fancy. I change it up a bit so she'll eventually notice that I've pruned the petunia or rotated the penta. The bench is rotting out from under it, but she'll never notice that.
The driveway has hosta in pots, neon colored geraniums, some allium and a few types of ginger.
We used to garden together when I was a child, and when she visited the homes I owned she enjoyed the seating areas and focal points I would create in my yards. Her memory is pretty good actually, but the visual stimuli encourages her to reminisce. "Do you remember having tea under the apple tree when the petals fell into our cups?" "Your grandfather grew fabulous cockscombs! I have no idea where he got seed back then."
I pick hibiscus blossoms most mornings and leave them in the house where she'll find them. Neighbors must think I'm nuts denuding the hibiscus blooms save where they can be seen from windows she uses.
Grandkids on infrequent visits don't realize they become part of the vignette by chasing anoles or butterflies. I'm more instructive with them, showing them my toad houses constructed of broken pots or how to turn palm fronds into plant stakes or play swords.