I retired at the end of June — nine years as a school librarian and eleven years as a teacher. The first week of July some relatives came to visit.

“How did you celebrate your retirement?” asked my brother in-law.

“I’ve just been drinking champagne by myself this week,” I replied as I glanced over at my husband and daughter.

“She had a retirement supper with her staff the last week,” said my husband, defensively.

And I did. The staff Community Fund group gave me a lovely yellow garden globe and paid for my meal, a cheesesteak and fries and one alcoholic beverage. The principal said a couple sentences about my time as the librarian — very nice, very positive. Then she moved on to the next five staff members who were leaving. It was done and forgotten in about an hour and a half. Through the rest of the week a few staff members came and chatted and wished me well. It was all very pleasant and tearless. Some students gave me hugs and told me they would miss me; I received a card from one class and a card from two other students saying goodbye. From a co-worker I got a plant and another gave me a handmade goodbye gift. I was grateful for these things. But why, at the end of my last day, why did it feel so underwhelming? What did I expect?

A couple of weeks earlier, in a conversation with my family, I suggested that perhaps we could have a party in mid-July. I thought we could celebrate a few milestone events all at once – my retirement, my daughter’s university graduation, my husband’s 60th birthday, and our wedding anniversary. The response was an oppressive quietness.

My daughter broke the silence first, “Umm, who would you be inviting?” she asked.

“You and your dad’s work friends, some other friends, and my co-workers might come.” I noted.

She shook her head, “I don’t think many would come and do you really think your school friends would come? They’ve already said their goodbyes.”

Now I was the silent one. The two of them had so many friends, why wouldn’t some of them come? But she was probably right about my co-workers.

Then my husband chimed in. He was weirdly adamant, “I DO NOT want to have any celebration for my birthday.”

He would only agree to a family celebration for our daughter’s graduation. I redirected my gaze to my computer screen, which wasn’t even on, but I had to look away from them because I suddenly felt weepy. I said nothing but thought, What about me? Can’t we celebrate me? It felt selfish but I let myself wallow in the emotion. I don’t think either of them realized what I was going through. Did I even know what I was experiencing?

Even though my family was not considering any kind of retirement celebration I admit that I secretly hoped that they would plan some little thing, a little gathering of friends or something. I was being ridiculous though because no party has happened or will be happening. There was nothing from my family to celebrate me. My husband’s first comments on the day of my retirement were about finances and the retirement payout from the School Division. He also made a side note that I may need to go back to work someday if necessary (I guess a writing career doesn’t count as work). My daughter was busy with her life, but she did make me a pie.

My first days of retirement consisted of a week-long visit with the in-laws which included eight children (under the age of nine) on the beach. The bottle of champagne that I bought for myself provided a refreshing nightcap after each day of beach fun. As I sat and stared at the last glass of champagne from the bottle, I swirled the liquid around. This particular bottle came with real gold leaf sparkles — I watched the gold turn and dip and shine. I raised the glass as a toast to myself. “Here’s to future golden opportunities,” and I downed the last sip, gold and all.

The day after the in-laws left, I visited a friend — a teacher who retired last year from a different school in the same Division. She baked me a chocolate cake as a retirement treat.

“So, how is retirement going so far?” she asked.

“To be honest it’s been disappointing. There have been lovely well-wishes and gifts, but it just feels underwhelming. I don’t know what I was expecting.”

She placed a coffee and a piece of cake in front of me. “I know exactly how you feel. When I retired last year, after 25 years, it felt just like any other June. Nothing special, no celebrations, just congratulations and good luck wishes.”

“No kidding. I drank a bottle of champagne all by myself this week. The only thing celebratory about it was the gold leaf pieces glittering in the bubbles.”

She laughed, got up from the table and opened the fridge. She pulled out her own bottle of champagne, unopened. She spun it around — shimmery pink waves moved like a lava lamp inside the bottle. “A friend gave me this for my retirement.” She twirled it again. “You and I should plan a celebration of our own one night and empty this one.”

I laughed, “It’s a date.”

Later in the evening, I posted the few retirement pics (that I took myself) on Facebook, to acknowledge to myself that this has actually happened. The well-wishes poured in, of course – Congratulations! You will love it! Enjoy! What else are they supposed to say? I appreciated their comments. They recognized this was a big moment. But, for such a huge milestone . . . why did it still feel so meh?

The next day, as I responded to the congratulation posts, clicking the “like” button to each comment, a thought suddenly occurred to me. These posts, they spoke about future hopes and dreams; no one mentioned the death. No one acknowledged the death of my education career, the end of the person that was a teacher and a librarian, no one talked about that life. There was no recognition of that part of me that was consumed by my career, the contribution that I gave to that life — the devotion, the dedication. The loss of that life needed to be mentioned, celebrated, remembered, mourned. It needed closure. I decided that a funeral must take place.

A few days later, my retiree friend and I stuffed a bag with the bottle of shimmery champagne, two red solo cups, a lighter, a small pie tin, and our official Letters of Retirement and we drove over to my school yard. The air was grey with wildfire smoke when we pulled alongside the school – eerily perfect for a funeral. Two ravens sat atop the spruce trees nearby and waited. It was as if they were invited to the ceremony. Their silence was unnerving. We settled down at a wooden table by the edge of the playground.

“I really do understand what you’ve been feeling,” my friend said.

I looked at her with appreciation, “It’s upsetting that we both felt like this at retirement, isn’t it? Thanks for going along with this crazy idea of mine. I do believe it’ll be helpful to have this little funeral to just let it all go.”

I pulled my letter out of the bag and clicked the lighter. “Goodbye teaching life.” I set my letter afire above the pie tin and watched it burn. I handed my friend the foil plate and the lighter. She lit her paper and dropped it into the tin. The final bit of paper that burned was the School Division logo at the top left corner of the letter. We laughed. The ashes were left to cool as I read my tribute to our teaching careers.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate, remember and mourn our careers in education. Today we acknowledge all that we have experienced and endured as educators for the last twenty plus years. We will embrace the joy and happiness that we felt when our students succeeded. We will keep in our hearts their smiles, their laughter and their dreams. We will release the frustration, anger and despair we felt when our students struggled, and when the School Division offered little help. We will let go of the horrible, unmentionable things that we saw and heard — those things that left us feeling helpless and heartbroken.” My voice began to crack, and it became difficult to continue speaking. I wiped away the tears welling in my eyes.

After a pause I gathered myself and continued. “We acknowledge all the mistakes we made and we will forgive ourselves. We will remember, with fondness, our school family and those co-workers that supported us during the difficult parts of our teaching careers. We are ready to release these lives and let them rest in peace. We will leave with our memories, a full heart, and no regrets.”

For a few minutes we sat quietly. A slight wind made the ashes in the tin dance around and then all at once a heavy gust picked them up and scattered them around us. We watched as the end of those lives settled onto the ground.

My friend then reached into the bag and pulled out the plastic cups and the bottle. The metal cage came off with ease, but she struggled with the cork — she pushed and twisted and pulled, but it wouldn’t release.

“It figures,” I said, “a struggle right until the end.”

Perhaps it was also symbolic of the moment; our wish to break free from our education careers — and how difficult it was to leave. With a few more tugs, the cork began to loosen and move. She held the bottle outward to let the cork pop toward the trees. When the cork finally released there was no big pop nor was there the ethereal vision of champagne mist floating out like a spirit. Instead, the air flowed out like a silent fart. We burst out laughing! She poured the shimmery wine into our cups. I let out a deep breath, “Well, here’s to us.” We knocked the cups together in a toast. The champagne splashed up and dotted my cheeks, moistening my dried tears.

No more regrets, I told myself.