Memorial

 The last time I had been to Clandon Wood natural burial site, it was to enjoy the beauty of the place, and in particular its butterflies*. Yesterday I was there for a very different, desperately sad reason – a memorial service for a remarkable young woman who in her childhood was like a beloved granddaughter to us. She was the daughter of the friend whose funeral we attended only last year. A lovely, talented and much loved girl, she somehow came to feel herself alone, cut off and desolate beyond help, and in the end, like her mother, she could no longer bear the pain of living. 
  This memorial for the daughter was every bit as beautiful and moving as the funeral service for the mother. There was no overt religious content, but it was perfectly judged for the occasion, and again the eulogies – from her twin brother, sisters and father – were perfect: loving, eloquent and true. How they got through them without breaking down I don't know – such courage... Video footage of the children playing brought back so vividly, so heartbreakingly, those happy days of our surrogate grandparenthood. We filed out to the strains of Bridge Over Troubled Waters. I can't remember when I last felt so sad or wept so many tears. May she rest in the deepest peace – and may she know how much, and by how many, she was loved. 
  Outside, it was a day of sunshine and sudden vertical showers. A few late butterflies were flying – a Speckled Wood, some washed-out Meadow Browns, those indefatigable Whites. Season's end.

[*See also the chapter 'Of Death and Butterflies' in this book]