Laying To Rest

It was raining. Of all the weathers, rain always seems simultaneously the most and least appropriate for a funeral ceremony. But this rain was not atmospheric. It didn't ease the pain. It didn't help comprehension, or block out the rest of the world. It was a light rain, an inescapable drizzle, a damp wind that clogged vision, numbed senses and penetrated clothes. I walked in with two other students. They seemed rather unaffected. Clutching their white roses, dandily accompanied by cheerful spray and dancing ribbon, they trekked through the crematorium grounds, past the lines of those long past. The lines. The gravestones that went on and on and on into the horizon, over the interlocking hills. Futile. It was a mockery, a joke, a tribute to mankind's defiant rebellion against death. The marble blocks thrusting upwards out of the earth, a stony hand clutching the air and silently bellowing the memory of their life. I walked past them all. Name after name after name, all faceless, all lifeless. Decades of stories condensed into a name and two numbers. And then the waiting. The standing outside. I felt a cold veil draw over me, and decided that the plastic covering the white rose in my hand was too much. It was suffocating it, making it seem like a token gesture. I clutched the rose, caught my hand on a thorn - but no blood came. Instead, the pain dissipated like a bad memory, fading away into the greyness of the clouds, the sky, the rain, the suits that surrounded me. People came up next to me. Greeted me, commenting on the sadness of the situation like it was a poor exam result. They filed out of the back of the crematorium, but you could still see them. The previous group. A conveyor belt, processing one death after another, coldly, perfunctorily, with a heartless precision not fitting religion nor atheism. But there it was. There's too much death in this world to linger over a single one for much more than is necessary.

The father led the way into the place. Slowly, yet cheerfully. He was an undertaker, apparently. All the worse. But of course, (of course!) the place was full. The aisles were packed, people stood behind the coffin, they went out through the doors. Little kids he'd coached. Prefects he'd worked with. Students he'd touched. Adults he'd earnt the respect of. Music played softly. There was the usual happiness. I clutched the dark, thin umbrella handle tightly in my seat on the aisle. My fourth funeral in two years, all of them seen here. Awful. Horrible. The slow recycling of life. There were the speeches. The usual celebration. First, the father. Cheery. Without tears or remorse. Turns out he's religious. How he's maintained that, I'll never know, but at least it's shielding his fragile spirit from the less palatable other thoughts. Then, the coach leader at Hengistbury Head. "It's been hard, over these past few weeks," she said, "And will be in the future, to pass the place where Chris was struck. It's a place full of flowers and there's a sign up. It says, "Please don't pick the flowers, and let them bloom."," with that, she held up a dying, blood red poppy. "Someone picked this flower, and it never got a chance to fully bloom." I cried. I didn't think I was going to. I was afraid I would remain stony-faced, a miserable bystander who has come to pay respect to another corpse. But I cried at that. Not because he was a close friend. Not because I am now in his place. But because it happened. It happened to him and it shouldn't have. And she was right - it was the cutting of a flower before blossom. It was the halting of growth, the snouting of the flame. Then the headmaster. Then the father again. Merry tales, yet heavy with woe. Unspoken, like a metaphor, waiting to be picked out by the congregation. No-one did. And then the closing song. Don't Stop Me Now, by Queen, hit the sides of the church. That killed me. Before, I had merely welled up, but then I actually cried. It was horrible. It was a joke, a horrible joke. As a closing speech, his father had said, "Don't say 'bye' or 'goodbye' to Chris. Because it's not goodbye. Instead, say 'au revoir', because we know we'll see him again sometime." But it was all a fucking joke. He was gone. He was gone and he wasn't coming back. Struck down by some horrible chaotic pattern, some sick twisted deity, or some cruel, blind God, clawing at his own creation in a bid to put things right. That was it. It was just horribly careless - a kid, 19, encouraged others with his energy and verve, raised thousands for charity, killed - murdered - not even in the prime of his life. BEFORE the prime of his life. He'd hardly begun. Don't Stop Me Now? He had already been stopped. Burnt out. I filed past his coffin, and the white rose lay down next to him. I whispered my thanks to the dead image of the guy who probably didn't know my name. Another martyr to consequence and fate. And then out again. Out into the dark light. The rain eased off, but the crowd lingered. I opened the umbrella anyway, filed past the smiling parents, and off - past the crowd waiting to lay another poor sod to rest - striding out into the open world again.

Christopher Rice 1986-2005