She at His Funeral
They bear him to his resting-place--
In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger's space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire!
- “She At His Funeral” by Thomas Hardy
Late Summer, in the city of St Louis, and the grass was tinged with a slightly brown cast overshadowed by new green from the recent rain. Tree limbs still scattered the ground from where the storm had thrown them, though an effort had been made to restore order. It was otherwise the same, the same stone walls, the same stained glass windows, the same sense that all are welcome there, in this place of age and rest. The stone monuments, the thick trees casting light over the winding paths.
Nancy had arraigned everything again, with the same efficiency as last time. The gentle voice, the same brisk mother-like approach drew the details from Connie. An urn interment, for a lost body, a ceremony for someone who had been raised in the Church of England. The proper stone, the right words. All arraigned in that same soft tone.
Nancy was there as she stepped into the church, readying with a gentle smile and a hug for the younger woman. “I’m sorry, Constance. I know that last time you were here you were engaged. A short time to become a widow.”
A troubled look settled into her eyes at that, and Connie glanced down at the basket with the Urn and bundles of flowers in her arms. “I.. I know. I wish the body could have been found, for this.”
“Sometimes things happen.” Nancy placed her hand on the woman’s arm, leading her into the office. “Father Richard will be holding the ceremony for you. He was a bit surprised that you wanted your husband here, but I explained about your parents.”
She stops short, staring at Nancy. “Not… Not Father Patrick.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I though you knew about that. Father Patrick had a heart attack at the beginning of the year. Richard is the replacement, a bit young but dedicated.”
Connie closes her eyes a moment, collecting herself. “That is good.” Inside the loss of the kindly only man that helped her put her ghosts to rest hurt, mixed with all the pain that drove her to this place again.
She met with the young Father, listened to his words, moved thought he ceremony with grace. Though it took some words to convince Nancy, she had managed to have an actual grave site for him, the Urn buried under the earth. An empty Urn, holding the last Dragon Avatar charm he ever made. The form he loved and she hated, the form he hurt lucky in. A symbol of all his power as a mage. All buried in a single hole near a simple low stone in the shade of a great oak. Near another pair of graves.
All throughout the ceremony she waited silently, tears there upon her face. She waited while the earth was filled in, while the final words were said. Until the sleepers left, and she could be alone in this place. Alone to say her final words to her husband.
She knelt by the stone, tracing the words that were freshly carved this morning, a rush job. From living with Henry, she learned that money could work miracles, and she used that, to give him this last marker, this last memorial of all that he was. Burring her hands among the flowers, she removes a large portion of them, scattering them across the low stone, headless of the thorns that tore her skin.
At last, she spoke to the air. “Henry, I forgive you. For everything between us, for everything you did to me. For everything I tried to become to please you, for all the times that you made me feel I was never good enough.” She takes a deep ragged breath. “I forgive you for those last words you said to me. Not because you need to hear me, but because I will not bear what you have made me feel any longer. I loved you. I will always love what you were to me, even if I do not know what was real and what was an illusion you built anymore. And I want you to have this. Dignity, a place that will remain to show that you lived. I’m sorry for everything.”
Connie ran her fingers over the stones one last time as the rain started, falling from the sky in a gentle mist. Stopping at the other graves nearby, she placed the rest of the flowers there, pausing with her head bowed. She stood there a long moment, a solitary figure in a long black dress, hair wet and teased by the wind. A hand slipped into hers, from the unseen figure whom had watched the events this day, silent but known. A small, sad little smile crossed her lips, even as the tears still fell.
And then she moved on, leaving only the sound of the wind and the rain, the oak leaves dripping in the storm. And over a freshly turned pile of earth, a new stone, keeping watch over another who was given to this place.
Henry Smythe-Carstaire Jones
May 27th, 1971 - July 21st, 2005
Beloved Husband
In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger's space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire!
- “She At His Funeral” by Thomas Hardy
Late Summer, in the city of St Louis, and the grass was tinged with a slightly brown cast overshadowed by new green from the recent rain. Tree limbs still scattered the ground from where the storm had thrown them, though an effort had been made to restore order. It was otherwise the same, the same stone walls, the same stained glass windows, the same sense that all are welcome there, in this place of age and rest. The stone monuments, the thick trees casting light over the winding paths.
Nancy had arraigned everything again, with the same efficiency as last time. The gentle voice, the same brisk mother-like approach drew the details from Connie. An urn interment, for a lost body, a ceremony for someone who had been raised in the Church of England. The proper stone, the right words. All arraigned in that same soft tone.
Nancy was there as she stepped into the church, readying with a gentle smile and a hug for the younger woman. “I’m sorry, Constance. I know that last time you were here you were engaged. A short time to become a widow.”
A troubled look settled into her eyes at that, and Connie glanced down at the basket with the Urn and bundles of flowers in her arms. “I.. I know. I wish the body could have been found, for this.”
“Sometimes things happen.” Nancy placed her hand on the woman’s arm, leading her into the office. “Father Richard will be holding the ceremony for you. He was a bit surprised that you wanted your husband here, but I explained about your parents.”
She stops short, staring at Nancy. “Not… Not Father Patrick.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I though you knew about that. Father Patrick had a heart attack at the beginning of the year. Richard is the replacement, a bit young but dedicated.”
Connie closes her eyes a moment, collecting herself. “That is good.” Inside the loss of the kindly only man that helped her put her ghosts to rest hurt, mixed with all the pain that drove her to this place again.
She met with the young Father, listened to his words, moved thought he ceremony with grace. Though it took some words to convince Nancy, she had managed to have an actual grave site for him, the Urn buried under the earth. An empty Urn, holding the last Dragon Avatar charm he ever made. The form he loved and she hated, the form he hurt lucky in. A symbol of all his power as a mage. All buried in a single hole near a simple low stone in the shade of a great oak. Near another pair of graves.
All throughout the ceremony she waited silently, tears there upon her face. She waited while the earth was filled in, while the final words were said. Until the sleepers left, and she could be alone in this place. Alone to say her final words to her husband.
She knelt by the stone, tracing the words that were freshly carved this morning, a rush job. From living with Henry, she learned that money could work miracles, and she used that, to give him this last marker, this last memorial of all that he was. Burring her hands among the flowers, she removes a large portion of them, scattering them across the low stone, headless of the thorns that tore her skin.
At last, she spoke to the air. “Henry, I forgive you. For everything between us, for everything you did to me. For everything I tried to become to please you, for all the times that you made me feel I was never good enough.” She takes a deep ragged breath. “I forgive you for those last words you said to me. Not because you need to hear me, but because I will not bear what you have made me feel any longer. I loved you. I will always love what you were to me, even if I do not know what was real and what was an illusion you built anymore. And I want you to have this. Dignity, a place that will remain to show that you lived. I’m sorry for everything.”
Connie ran her fingers over the stones one last time as the rain started, falling from the sky in a gentle mist. Stopping at the other graves nearby, she placed the rest of the flowers there, pausing with her head bowed. She stood there a long moment, a solitary figure in a long black dress, hair wet and teased by the wind. A hand slipped into hers, from the unseen figure whom had watched the events this day, silent but known. A small, sad little smile crossed her lips, even as the tears still fell.
And then she moved on, leaving only the sound of the wind and the rain, the oak leaves dripping in the storm. And over a freshly turned pile of earth, a new stone, keeping watch over another who was given to this place.
Henry Smythe-Carstaire Jones
May 27th, 1971 - July 21st, 2005
Beloved Husband