That all my worldly possessions fit into the trunk of a car should mean something. But it doesn’t.
Not much means anything any more.
The tears of the sky fall upon my wind-shield and the wipers brush them away with nonchalance, a nonchalance that has now settled deep within my mind.
For forty years I worked as an accountant, bent over a desk in a 4 by 4 cubicle, returning to a house ransacked by two hyper active kids, who I love most dearly. What got me through was the mantra – ‘when they are off to college, I’ll be off to live my life.‘
The elder one graduated last year, the younger one graduates next year.
So here I am. I’ve settled my affairs, cashed in my chips, and am off to live my life, or at least what is left of it. With stage three carcinoma, the doctors really couldn’t say.
In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 23rd June prompted by a photo by Ted Strutz