Melancholic

There's something both forlorn and yet wistfully poignant about a British seaside resort in the rain. It seemed somewhat apt today.
A trip to Morecambe ostensibly to collect some glass but really to visit S and his wife A. S worked with and for us for over a decade, he's one of the ones I always remember with a smile, that I've made a conscious effort to stay in touch with.
He's always been active and fit, worked with his hands as a joiner and glazier, and whilst great company he never smoked or drank anything more than socially. And yet. Almost exactly a decade older than me and now diagnosed with a chronic lung disease. He's already only got 35% capacity and has been told his only chance is a lung transplant - if he's even compatible. Without it he has less than a year, and it will be a terrible year to endure.

Afterwards I sat a while on the promenade catching distant glimpses of the Coniston fells between the squalls that blew through. I thought a goodly while of how injuries and choices and the simple passing of the years have slowly taken a toll on what I can or should do... But I thought longer on how many options and opportunities I'm blessed enough to still be able to consider. I'm thankful there are so many potential paths into the future, to think of only having even a chance of just one possible path to any future seems such a cruel turn of events for such a good man.