I imagined retirement would feel light and unstructured, a long-earned reward after decades of routine. Instead, it arrived quietly. At sixty-four, with no close family nearby and no obligations on my calendar, my days stretched out in a way that felt more hollow than peaceful. Mornings blended into afternoons, and silence filled the space where purpose used to live.
On impulse, I began visiting a small café a few blocks from my apartment. I didn’t go for the coffee so much as for the repetition. Sitting at the same table, ordering the same drink, gave my days a beginning. Over time, a young waitress learned my name and my order. She asked simple questions—how my morning was, whether the weather bothered my joints. Her friendliness was brief but sincere, and gradually it became something I looked forward to more than I expected.Continue reading…
