Two years, and he could hardly remember how he’d managed to survive before.
The rush. The never ending tasks. The constant worry. The being pulled a million ways by demands and the dreams of others.
He’d run on fumes for months on end, then crash and burn in ways that hurt not only himself but also the ones whose lives were closest. All those bridges he’d burnt.
It was the last burnt bridge that had paradoxically saved him. It became a light from burning embers. He’d flown out to care for an ailing uncle, but in truth just to escape the consequences of another interpersonal disaster. He expected to discover his uncle, who’d been the family’s previous pariah, on death’s door. What he did not expect was to find him so content.
“Live here,” were his uncle’s last words. “Need little. Use less. The Keys saved me. Claim your turn.”