"Dim Light, Full Heart: On Social Security Letters, Class Reunions, and the Art of Not Turning on the Lights Too Fast"

"The Lost Years, 2018–2023. in my apartment in Florence, SC. Population: one dreamer and 8.3 million plastic souls. The Lego City of Enceladus—where skyscrapers rose, but time stood still."

Now Retired (Officially): When that letter from Social Security arrives—the one stating you’ve reached the age when your retirement benefits are fully unlocked, that you’ll no longer be penalized for working those millions you probably won’t earn—well, it’s unclear how to react. Jump for joy? Sit quietly and feel... mature? “Old” is a harsh word. Still, age happens. And the longer we live, the older we get. Some wear it gracefully. Others wear it visibly. But the numbers don’t lie.

And then, out of nowhere, you remember: the pension money, the stocks and bonds you walked away from when you left Bank of America—not because you were ready to retire, but because you were ready to live. You didn’t save. You didn’t buy a house. You went to Europe to see Rome, Venice, Milan, the castles and cafes in Germany and Switzerland, and just a whisper of the UK. You traded compounding interest for experience. And looking back now, it wasn’t a mistake. It was a choice.

Reunion Reckonings: Of course, thoughts drift toward the next class reunion. You remember the last one—when most of us still resembled our high school selves, give or take a missing afro or receding hairline. Bald spots had bloomed, grey had crept in, but the spirit was intact. Now, you wonder what we’ll look like to each other this time. Will we recognize the essence, even if the exteriors have softened, wrinkled, faded?

And the bigger question—how many of us will be left to celebrate fifty years since that sun-soaked day on the football field, gripping diplomas like passports into adulthood, into jobs, into college, into whatever dream felt closest at the time.

The Number Game: They say age is just a number. And most of the time, you nod along. But sometimes, numbers start to feel like cliff edges—or small triumphs. Especially when you’re lying beside someone in the dark, and passion doesn’t ask for ID. The heat still rises. Desire still pulses. Just... don’t flip on the lights so fast. Let your eyes adjust. Let age do what it does best when left to soften in shadow.

Enceladus