Today, I went to a funeral for a friend—85 years old, a good man who lived well. It was one of those quietly sobering days that made you stop and take stock. Standing there among faces weathered by time, I couldn’t help but notice how much had shifted around us. Becky’s and my parents are all gone now, and so are nearly all our aunts and uncles, save one. It hit me: we’ve moved through the wedding years, then the farewells to our elders, and now we’re at the stage where it’s our friends. The numbers are thinning, and we’re next in line.
Oddly enough, I felt pretty young. Sitting in the church, waiting for the service to start, I realised I was one of the younger ones there—most of the mourners were well into their 80s, with the average age somewhere in the mid-70s. Still, there was a weight in the air, that unique silence that settles when years of shared history gather in one place. But it wasn’t all heavy. There were plenty of stories, the kind told with warm, knowing laughter that only comes from a lifetime of memories. Beneath the humour, though, was that unspoken understanding—a shared awareness that time is relentless and every day counts.
It’s strange to feel so young at a funeral, knowing that time is catching up. The road ahead may not stretch as far as it once did, but it still feels worth walking.