I threw myself a going-away party. No one came but the cat, and the cat doesn't count.
I made a plate of deviled eggs and sat on the porch. Found that spare button in my pocket, still in its tiny plastic bag. It came from an old work shirt.
My wife sewed that button on the morning I started my first septic route. Forty-seven years ago last month.
The free trial for that streaming service ends tonight. I never actually watched anything. Just liked knowing I could.
The realtor said I should take time to say goodbye. But I already said my real goodbye last year, when she left.
So I ate the eggs, gave the button to the cat to bat around, and watched the streetlights hum to life.
Seventy-nine years old, and I'm starting over. It's not sad. Just different.