I wonder how your Retire-at-55 plan would be going by now? Would we be Florida-bound? Or woefully far from the dream?
That seems to be how life goes. We smugly think our plans are well-made, well-plotted, that hard work and diligence paid. Or we think God had other plans or we missed the mark, failure at our backs. Our dreams become what we have at hand.
A widow’s work is never done. I’m sitting outside on my London-green park bench, a Mother’s Day gift from long ago, another life, and I am wishing, crying, that I could personally wish you a happy birthday. Do they have birthdays where you are? I think not. It seems a purely human construction, to glorify our existence, to claim one moment in history’s yearly course.
Someday, I will carry out our Retire-at-55 dream, although I may be 57 before it officially occurs. I will take a piece of you with me and plant you in paradise, as you hoped to be, as you are now, albeit a far greater paradise than mere Earth can muster.
Wish we were there.