Dear Newly Retired Me

How are you one month in?

Is this how you imagined it would be? PJs at ten, the brilliant rays falling on crisp white bedding and warming your feet, your toes wriggling with pleasure? And the silence, interrupted only by the occasional sound of waves crashing in the distance, a soft hum almost lulling you back to sleep. And then, the others moving softly on tiptoes against the wooden floor so as not to stir you. You delve deeper under the covers, your negligee slipping off unbothered shoulders, the red and pink hearts gathering on rounded breasts heavy with newly found menopausal weight. The linen clings to salty skin, for the hot flashes had been particularly fierce in the Cape Town heat.

How does it feel to not to have to grab and gulp down lukewarm coffee, or carry bags laden with gadgets and books and the multitude of stationery that are the staples of every teacher? Does it feel like freedom yet? Does this feel like the peace you craved?

Or are you perturbed by how foreign it feels for these old bones to be at rest? Is it strange for the mind to be free of checklists and SIPs and POAs? Is it so foreign, in fact, that being splayed out in bed at ten suddenly feels slightly uncomfortable?

So you emerge from your cotton cocoon, slip your feet into satin slippers, and leave your cave. You are slightly disheveled, with bed hair and morning breath and a guilty grin. "I’m going for a walk," you announce to the room. You don your sportswear, weights, and headphones. Zara Larsson sings about a “lush life” and you think, "Babe, wait till you reach sixty, then you’ll know how lush life actually is."

Outside, the air tastes of salt, and the sun is already warming itself for the day. You lift a hand to the gardener who pauses mid-hose spray, water arcing like glass shards in the light. “Morning!” you call. “Morning,” he answers, smiling as if he loves his job (though he probably doesn’t). You dodge the spray of water carried by a sudden gust and laugh as you make your way to the security gates.

You step onto the asphalt and begin. Heel then toe. Heel then toe. The road is still cool, still kind. West Beach stretches ahead in quiet rows of houses most people having left for the day. A door shuts. A gate clicks, someone’s late getting to the office today.

Your rhythm finds you:

Step. Swing. Breathe.

Step. Swing. Breathe.

Headphones hum. Heart drums.

Left-right. Left-right.

Sunlight flickers through lazy lashes.

Salt rides the breeze to find you.

Takkies kiss tar.

Past high garden walls.

Past workmen starting their day.

Past thoughts of yesteryear...

And there it is: the echo of the past.

The echo of morning prayers in a roomful of girls on foreign soil.

The echo of a teacher voice softly saying, “Let’s begin...”

You take those words to heart, the last twenty-five years tugging at your heartstrings.

Let’s begin again.

The shoreline is silver, wide, and waiting. The sea settles into a gentler rhythm as if to accommodate your slower pace.

Waves roll in:

Hush. Rush. Hush. Rush.

You stop briefly. You smile sweetly. You listen closely:

And in the distance, you hear a bell ringing signaling the start of a new day.