Each day, I put in my shift. Most of my peers are retired by now, but I took my retirement out in installments over the years, kind of a reverse mortgage retirement. I spent my twenties and early thirties unencumbered by steady work, just working the minimum to get by, knocking around the country, Denver, east coast, west coast, Mexico, bits of Canada.
When I did settle down to raise a family, it was as a self-employed contractor, that was the only thing worth busting my ass for. I made enough that my wife didn’t have to work when our kids were little, a fact born out in the good, solid adults they are today. Savings? Not so much. Retirement, are you kidding? But we lived well and sat down to a three course meal every night, all seven of us including my step-kids. I was able to take off for every field trip, school play, or haunted forest work party that came around. And if the weather was too bad to work I could just grab my guitar and hang out at school with the kids. I kept my company small, to keep the stress level low, and to keep my assurances high that the work was being done right. I guess it’s my own version of success.
So, I still put in my shift. At the end of the day, I pass within a couple of blocks of where those meals took place. I arrive at the house that my amazing partner and I have called home for almost a decade now. I gather up my heavy coat and gloves and start on my walk. I reach the spot where I do my exercises, I lay on my back and I look up at the stars.
Not withstanding all the places where I have laid my head, that have fed and nourished me, that still hold pieces of me, I gaze upward and say, welcome home.