I am not happy all the time. No one is.
There are days when the sadness comes back, naturally, like a visitor knocking at the door. It reminds me of what won’t return, it tightens my throat a little, it brings back memories of Christmas past. I let it pass through. I don’t fight it. I don’t make it into an enemy.
But what stays with me the longest isn’t the loneliness.
It is the peace.
The peace of knowing I took care of others, enough.
The peace of knowing I gave, a lot.
The peace of no longer having to prove I am useful by forgetting myself.
At 79, I have earned a precious right: the right to take care of myself, exactly how I see fit.
I live alone, but I am not lost.
I don’t make noise.
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