The same domed chapel, the same portico, the same suits and ties and faces, all reuniting between the flowers and grass and the yew trees. The chatter died down as the shiny black hearse drew up and sombre men carried Henry in upon their shoulders.
Every time I go back there, the grief of the last time returns. The blue hymn books, the cold fan, the carved wood, the letters RESVRGAM engraved above the coffin, the rich blue curtains... memories sweep in like the tide, and I understand for a moment just what, and who I'm missing.
Henry was a champion. In the most beautiful, understated way, he carried truth and life with him wherever he went. Bolder than a lion, kinder than anyone knew, gentle but firm, and, unassailably joyful. The world is different because Henry prayed, and now, the world will be different again without him.
"It sounds like a daft thing to say," I whispered to Karen. "But it just feels like he ought to be here." She nodded, knowing what I meant. Henry just belongs to us, and the gathering of people outside the chapel, seemed somehow incomplete without him there.
I hope I don't find myself at that place again any time soon. If grief really is like the sea, rushing in in relentless tides, then I'd like to see it roll out to the horizon for a good long while, instead of coursing in again before its time.
But the ocean is not the only relentless thing in this story. As Aslan puts it in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, there's much deeper magic at work. And somehow, beyond the dark stained wood of that sad place, far from the suits and faces and the weariness of the world, a soul set foot on a golden floor to rapturous applause. Resurgam. I shall rise.
If I close my eyes I can see him smiling there, lit like the first leaves of Spring that catch the sun: whole, new, complete, and ready to cheer us on, as ever he did. Thank you, Henry.
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