Sixty eight, retired, and the days are far too long

I retired at sixty five and it was the worst decision available at the time and I made it anyway. Nobody tells you that a week with nothing fixed in it stops being a holiday around the fourth month and becomes something closer to fog. I need to be expected somewhere.

Sixty eight, Brooklyn, in the same apartment for thirty one years. Fourteen years of this with one woman, who died in twenty twenty two, and I have done nothing since and am doing something now because my son more or less told me to.

What I am good at is anything domestic and anything requiring patience. I cook properly. I can sit on hold for an hour without getting angry. I can be trusted with a key, which is not a small thing, and I was for fourteen years.

What I want is a standing day. One or two, fixed, with a list and somebody who checks. That is it. The whole value to me is being expected, and the checking is what makes it real rather than a favour.

I am not interested in anything physical and never have been in this. I do not want money and would find the offer of it uncomfortable, which I say because it has been offered twice by people being kind. I am old, I am slower than I was, and I am the most reliable person you will meet. Those are all true at once.