Two and a half years and I have my thirty. All right. Technically two years and eight months. But. I have a mental countdown.

Today, my beloved and I drove two hours southwest to check out seven acres of land on the top of a mountain. We already own twenty acres of another mountain in a totally different state. But it’s about five hours away.

The first time we found this property was the day I said good-bye to my brother. I think part of my beloved’s reasoning was to give me a distraction. It worked. Ish.

He fell in love immediately. I was too weary and grieved to feel much of anything else. I asked for a month to process everything before I made a decision.

Eight weeks later, I found myself daydreaming about the property and its gorgeous view of the neighboring mountains. So I invited my beloved to join me on a tour of the property

So this morning, we loaded up the dogs and started our journey to what was representing the next stage of our lives.

He is looking at retiring next year. In nine months, he could be done with his career. He will still work. But the 40 hour a week and overtime will become relegated to outdated calendar pages. He will finally rest. He will finally have a chance to breathe.

And so the dreams begin in earnest. A retreat from the suburbial world. A retreat from traffic and stoplights and a firehouse just down the road from us. A place where we can face west and watch the storms roll in over the mountains and where we can pass the evening counting fireflies.

We drove well out of our way, taking a different route which built up the barricade between my memories and me. Behind us, the dogs sprawled on their beds or took turns looking out the back window or whining because some delicious smell lured them from their sleep.

As we drove up the mountain, I fell into dreams of retirement. Of stepping out of my classroom and closing my planner for the last time. Already, I have started letting go of books, recycling old lessons and papers. I look at my cluttered shelves and ask what will be the next thing to go.

I dream of writing as much as possible. I dream of writing novels and stories and poetry. I dream about not grading papers or calling parents because of concerns or questions. I dream about not living my life from bell to bell. I look forward to not feeling like I’m caught between warring political factions.

After we arrived, my beloved and I started surveying the property. The view was still there. Still lovely.

We strolled along the property’s edges, searched for survey marks. We found evidence of where people have hunted. We followed the water well’s hose.

We found lines of recently planted tulip poplars. We walked through floating milkweed seed pods.

And as we neared the car, I could feel it. A moment of decision. I liked the property. But I felt no drive, no excitement, no need to call it mine. I wanted the plants, but I could plant those myself. I could see the view from the valley. Or from the trails.

I was not in love. And as I listened to my husband, I could hear the same hesitation. He wanted a retirement escape that was closer to home.

But this wasn’t it. This would be someone’s home. But not ours. At least not now.

We agreed to re-evaluate in a month. But as we drove home, I kept thinking about the rock ledge on the top of our 20 acre property. It is there. And sitting on it, her legs crossed, is my dream self. Luxuriating in her retirement.

I can’t wait to join her.