It seemed like old times.
Pulling into the strip mall parking lot.
To meet a friend for lunch.
Something not done for three years.
Since the pandemic.
I was surprised so many cars wove through aisles.
Especially in unrelenting heavy rain.
I donned a mask in the name of caution.
Only to see no one masked.
Not patrons.
Hostesses.
Cooks.
My friend nabbed a table in the back.
Close to the kitchen.
I waved, joined her.
We ordered, but food wasn’t the point.
Only conversation, reminiscence.
How did our children, grandchildren get so old?
How did we?
We met as young mothers, babes in arms.
Words flooded us.
They were on our faces.
Hands.
Napkins.
The table was full of them.
No time to eat, drink.
Pushed plates aside.
Out of the jumble, poked a question.
From my friend to me.
How did you know it was time to retire?
I paused and took a breath.
The first in an hour.
People write long essays on the topic.
For magazines like AARP.
Even books.
So, I could only speak for myself.
Honoring people who want to continue working.
Into old age.
Who hold tightly to work identity.
After years of training and experience.
My decisions were ethical and personal, I said.
I wanted to make space for younger practitioners.
To try their skills.
Find success.
Second, I saw fewer years ahead than behind.
I wanted to grab them.
Find adventures.
Each decade I accomplished
tiny tasks to big careers.
It was time now to just be me,
claim myself without veneers.
Lynn Benjamin
December 1, 2022