I closed a bank account the other day, actually a credit union account. Seems an inconsequential and rather ordinary thing to do. Two things make it less so. First, it was an account I set up in 1974 when I joined the workforce full time after college. Second, it was a joint account with my wife of four years, at the time. It was an account where we saved our money, bought our cars, and took care of everyday life for a long time. But everyday life is different now. We no longer live close to a branch, and the partner in the joint account is gone.

I hesitated to close the account even though common sense said it was simply another thing to track. So common sense won, and I closed it. Then yesterday I sat down to shred several of the checkbooks I still possessed. As I was getting ready to finish the last one, I thought, I should save one of these checks as a memento, as if having a check with both our names on it would make everything A-OK. Common sense nudged me on the shoulder, and said, shredding that check isn’t going to destroy her memory. It’s a piece of paper. I shredded it.

With that move another invisible string connecting me to my past life was severed. Every time I cut one of those strings, I worry I’m going to become totally untethered and float off into space. Physically, it seems unlikely, but mentally, it’s the real deal. Having spent the better part of 50 years knowing exactly what was expected of me, now I’m on my own. Feels weird. I guess this is where my training as the son of an itinerant navy man comes into play. It’s a new day. It’s a new neighborhood. Look for the kids with bats and gloves. Say, hello, and smile.