![]() I built the deck on the back and planted the saplings that now tower over the rooftop. It was where I’d learned how to take care of a home. ![]() The house had been brand-new when I bought it with my first wife in 1992. ![]() Just the other day, I drove to the first house I owned and parked on the street. I’ve always been quietly sentimental, especially about endings and the past. I had come in especially early to gather my things before my colleagues got there. The sun was just peeking up over the horizon when I climbed the stairs to the third floor of the criminal justice building. My office was in the county complex in the industrial city of Martinez in California’s East Bay. What was I feeling? Was it uncertainty? Had I been kidding myself when I decided that retirement wouldn’t be so bad? That I’d finally have the time to take guitar lessons and pedal my mountain bike on rocky trails? That I’d find some other way to matter? Looking around my office, at the empty shelves, at the bare desktop, I took a deep breath.
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