When I retire, I’ll live quiet. Coffee slow. Light on the table. I’ll wake without a schedule pressing on my throat. I’ll finally have time. I’ll finally use it. I say it like a date is a fix. Not now. Not yet. I keep the promise alive. A future on paper that won’t hold still. Stairs get louder than they should. Hands choose rails without thinking. Forms go flat under my palm. Small print. Small warnings. I still say “later” like later is owed, but my breath already counts the cost. Retirement is a line. The body doesn’t sign. Not now. Not yet. I keep the promise alive. A future on paper that won’t hold still. When I retire. When I…
