The 15th of March

This morning we pulled the van over to speak with a neighbour.

He’s the same age as the man I work alongside most days.
Same kind of hands too.
The kind that have built things. Fixed things. Shaken a thousand other hands over the years.

He told us the 15th of March will be his last day.

Not because he’s tired of living.
Because cancer has been eating at him for two years and the morphine keeps climbing. He said he doesn’t want to end up in a hospital bed not knowing who he is. He wants to go while he’s still himself.

There was no drama in his voice.
Just calm.

When a man your own age chooses a date like that, something inside you tightens. It’s not just about losing a neighbour. It’s the sudden awareness of finitude. The realisation that the horizon isn’t abstract anymore. It has edges.

You could see it land heavy.

I barely know him.
But I felt something standing there.

Maybe it’s because I’ve looked at death from a different angle before. Not the same road. But close enough to recognise the air when it gets thin.

We didn’t talk long.
Just man to man. Respect. Eye contact. Both of us holding back tears we didn’t want to show too much of.

Then we got back in the truck and went back to work.

That’s the strange thing about life. Even when something heavy lands, the horses still need shoeing. The forge still needs lighting. The day keeps moving.

And maybe that’s the unifying truth in all of it.

Death clarifies. Work steadies. Responsibility anchors.

One man chooses how he leaves. Another man feels the weight of his own years more clearly. And the rest of us are reminded that time is not theoretical. It is moving through us, whether we pay attention or not.

Responsibility doesn’t pause for grief. The world continues to demand something of you. And how you answer that demand, especially when the weight is fresh, says more about your character than comfort ever will.

Something shifts in moments like that.

You realise integrity isn’t a slogan. It’s the sum of small decisions made while no one is watching. The way you carry yourself when the air gets thin. The way you leave, knowing one day you will.

None of us know our date.
Most of us don’t get to choose it.

But we do get to choose how we stand until it comes.

Not fear.
Not judgement.
Not noise.

Just the quiet obligation to stand upright while you can.

Hard work.
Hot iron.
Honest grit.