Posted by Tania Kindersley.
This was the one I was really not going to write about. Partly for all the reasons I was not going to write about the last one: not another bloody funeral; not another outing for the black coat; is there not another subject on this green earth that I could write about? Turns out: there is not. I hear the voice of Leonard Cohen in my head. It goes: sing another song boys, this one has grown old and bitter.
It was the third time in three weeks that I stood in a church and sang Oh Lord and Father of Mankind. The third time I thought: don't cry, don't make a fuss. It was the third time I thought: what is this bloody Plan that people speak of? It was the third time I looked out over a crowd of people standing very still and straight, in black suits. This time, the faces were stretched not just with loss and remembering, but with absolute disbelief.
I was not going to write about it because there really aren't any words left. I've run out. Words are my life, my work, my passion, but tonight I do not have any for you.
'Incomprehensible,' said one old friend, staring sadly out over the beautiful green fields of England.
But it must be marked. It feels important that it is recorded. She was a woman who had more life and kindness and funniness and good-heartedness in her little finger than most people have in their entire bodies. She gave so much joy. Her name was Victoria Potts. She was forty-two.
Here are the flowers we gathered last night from my cousin's garden, arranged, and laid outside the church: