Okay so this is probably going to sound… I don't know, a bit mad, maybe? Like something from a movie, but it's not. It's just my life. Or what's left of it, I guess. I retired last year, just turned 60, after forty-some years swinging a hammer, building houses, putting roofs over heads. Good work, honest work. You feel good at the end of the day, tired but good. And you see what you built, you know? A real thing. And now… now I build birdhouses. Twelve hours a day. Seriously. My workshop, it’s out back, good sized, got all my tools, good radio. I go out there before the sun's even up, come in when it's dark. And I make these little birdhouses. Fancy ones sometimes, with little porches. Even painted a few. Is that weird? Does anyone else ever just… disappear into a project like that? Like, really disappear? It’s not like I don’t like my wife. I do. We’ve been married forever. Since before either of us had any gray hair. Good woman. She’s still in the house, you know. I can hear her sometimes, puttering around, maybe watching her shows. But if I go in there, to the kitchen, it’s… quiet. Too quiet. Like the air just sits there, heavy. And she’ll try to talk, I know she will, ask about my day, what I’m making, but I just… I can’t. So I stay out in the workshop. With the sawdust and the sound of the saw. And the birds outside, waiting for their new little homes. Sometimes I wonder if she even notices I’m gone that long. Or if she’s just used to it now. I guess it’s better than sitting there in the quiet. Right? Am I the only one who feels this way? Like I'm hiding in plain sight. We live out in the country, you know, not many people around. Just us and the birds and a few cows down the road. So it's not like I have anywhere else to go, even if I wanted to. No coffee shops or anything to just sit and read the paper. My boys, they’re grown, got their own lives, their own kids. They call sometimes. Ask how we’re doing. I always say "we're good." Like everything's just fine. Building birdhouses. For the birds. And for me, I guess. It’s better than just… sitting. Staring. But then I think, what am I running from? And then I just start another birdhouse. A really big one this time. For a family of wrens, maybe.