Friends from work were busy with their own lives. Neighbors nodded politely but kept moving. I found myself watching the clock more than I ever had when I was employed, waiting for something to happen without knowing what that something was.
One morning, instead of making coffee at home, I put on my coat and walked down the block to a small café I’d passed dozens of times but never entered.
I ordered a simple drink and sat near the window.
That was it. Nothing special happened. No conversation worth remembering. No sudden insight.
And yet, the next day, I went back.
The Comfort of Repetition
I told myself I went for the coffee, but that wasn’t really true. What I wanted was the structure.
I liked walking the same route each morning. I liked sitting at the same table. I liked ordering the same drink without having to think about it.
In retirement, days can blur together if you let them. That small café routine gave my mornings a clear beginning. It gave me a reason to get dressed and step outside, even when the weather wasn’t inviting.
After a while, the young waitress behind the counter started to recognize me. She learned my name. She remembered my order before I said it.
“How’s your morning today?” she’d ask, setting my cup down.
