It's been three years now, since Tom and Harry were shot down. Two since Jamel died of the sickness that followed, one since we said goodbye to Angus, nine months since Abigail said I'm sick of all this goodbye shit and shot herself. Each one of them is etched on me, on all the nameless others that are gathered here today to remember those who were, but are no longer.

The father is saying something, but his words are lost on the wind. I feel some wetness on my cheek and reach up to brush it off with the handkerchief. Bits, fragments of the speech reach me - lost the fight - heroic in death - unable - stand for them - , and I look out to sea, to that awful horizon that reached in and claimed them one by one.

Another drop reaches me, and another and another. I am aware that it is raining, and people begin to shift and murmur quietly to each other. I stand with my eyes locked on the sea, and then raise my head, and fling back the veil, and the raindrops are falling, falling on me, and I am laughing, and then everything is better again just for a minute, a second, and all I can see is endless sky.