She smiled at me through the glass of a shut door —
the kind of smile that lets you know
the decision was made long before the conversation.
They told me — almost cheerfully —
that I could now retire.
As if it were a gift
rather than a reminder
that time was something I carried,
not something I owned.
For a moment,
I felt the weight of it:
a clock strapped to my back,
ticking not with age
but with expectation.
A quiet suggestion
that I had reached the point
where the future narrows
instead of opens.
But clocks measure hours,
not horizons.
So I loosened the straps a little
and let the idea slide off my shoulders —
falling behind me like an old coat
I no longer needed to wear.
Because the truth is simple:
I am not finished yet.
Not with growing,
not with building,
not with imagining
a life that refuses to shrink
to fit someone else’s sense of timing.
Time isn’t a limit.
It’s a landscape.
And I am still learning
how to walk it freely.