What retirement means to me

I am an empty nester, as I have mentioned before.  Such a cute little name for such a sad thing. But what does that really mean, on a day to day basis?  For me, it means:

• I have been forcibly retired from the best job I have ever had, the one I longed to have for years, but held out for until my nest was secure and stable with the right mate.  I was CEO of the best company in the world, center of growth and excitement, a devoted and tireless work-a-holic.  Suddenly, I was phased out, without the retirement party, the golden parachute, or the gold watch.
  
• We have sold the big beautiful house custom built for my kids and our lifestyle.  I live in a place that has never echoed with the giggles or running steps or childhood arguments of my kids.  Or the excitement of Christmas morning.  I listen, but, nothing.  I no longer even have access to the closets and beds that still smell like my babies.  If I did, I would lay down and sleep, sometimes.
• I miss the growth charts on the wall that recorded heights every four or six months.  I taped a piece of acrylic film over the chart and copied it before the wall was painted when we sold the house.  It stays rolled up in a closet.
• I miss being touched.  My kids and I are very touching people.  When each was born, I couldn't get enough of them.  After more than two decades of hugging, cuddling, nursing, rocking, soothing, and closeness, I went cold turkey to touch.  And it leaves an aching void.  My husband is not overly demonstrative, and therefore no substitute.
• The house is so quiet.  No slamming doors, no loud music, no stream of young people in and out and in.  I have deliberately made our home welcoming to all friends of my kids, and enjoyed the company of many over the years. They would walk in, say 'hi', and hit the pantry for snacks before heading upstairs to see whomever.  They borrowed money, spent the night, did their laundry, went on trips with us, or just dropped by to hang out.  No one does that anymore.
• I laugh less.
• I holler less, whether in summoning, cheering, or stopping a disagreement.
• When I am home alone, I often go the entire day without speaking.
• I worry more about what my kids think of me, whether they will someday not want to call or come home.  I don't have anything specific to offer anymore, our relationship will from hereon rely on friendship, regard, and love.  I hope that there will be enough of those.
• I drive a big vehicle that carries only me now.

If that sounds a little desperate, so be it.  I am in transition, in a type of mourning, for the family I once had.  Of course I still have it, in a different form, but right now I hurt.  I am a strong, independent and intelligent woman, capable of anything I put my mind to.  But, I am an empty nester, and believe me, this ain't for wimps.