Henry Somerset Flanagan Musician, skater, traveller. Kind to bird and beast, sensitive champion of the misunderstood or weak. Party animal. Friend, brother, son, lover. One of the good guys in life. Henry was a surprise! An unplanned love child, he burst onto the scene, and the world was full of joy. A better place. Changed forever ... the world offered new wonder, a glimpse at the meaning of life and, small bag of lego in hand, we travelled that world together. Now, without Henry, the world is a poorer place. I personally find it hard to imagine the future, and I just feel old and tired. I don't feel ready to celebrate my son's life yet. It’s too hard ... thoughts of his death are too bewildering and painful. In my grief I’m celebrating Henry's life, and it’s a grief as hard and unyielding as Henry’s will, and of the hills around us; but I suppose even limestone is worn down and softened over time. I think of his bright and laughter filled life; the bond of friendship he shared with Mary, his little sister. Playing in the sea, the sand, collecting shells at the shore. From a young age he was able to communicate with people of all ages and cultures; he had empathy and his lovely brown eyes shone with an almost melancholy understanding, a warm intelligence. He was so enthusiastic, and he was the kind of guy to try things out and more often than not, succeed. He loved music all his life and became an accomplished musician. It was so exciting that he and his mates had just formed a band, and the future looked so full of fun. His guitar hands will always be so vivid in my mind ... so strong and defined, so capable and able to turn thought into music. He was a fantastic sportsman, not just because of his speed and skill ... to watch him compete or play with him was a life affirming pleasure, for he possessed a powerful athletic body which he moved with such grace, and he played or skated with a desire and bravery. It is so hard to bear, to not have Henry’s physical presence around. I remember how he used to flump down on the settee, plate stacked impossibly high with food, his weight, his heaviness, his being, his camaraderie. I long for the dreams to begin, to meet Henry again, to once more hear his voice, his laughter, to feel his touch. But where is Henry now? These hills hold the echoes and monuments of our ancestors, the graves, the tumuli and the barrows hold their remains, and yet still after the thousands of years that we have sought beyond our brains, it remains a great mystery where the spirit of Henry is now, whether we have faith or no. Henry’s body is lying here but he is also all around us in our thoughts and memories. His spirit hasn't just evaporated, and maybe his essence is in the air around us, in the animals, maybe I can detect a deep heart beat within the rocks of Crook Peak and Wavering Down and that is a comfort to me, but we, the physical living have to carry on to live and to love and to make music and to care for those around us as he did. We are left to feel the pain and feel it keenly. We will wear a great red scar right here on our hearts and our brains forever, but that scar tells a vivid story ... the story of Henry and we'll maybe be stronger for it. The focus of our lives at this moment is Henry, but as we move on the focus must move to our friends and families, especially the ones who, no matter how popular, may be suffering as Henry did. We must cherish our happy times and make sure that we enjoy our lives ... be creative ... be brave ... be loving and be kind ... and like Henry, be kind also to the animals and the birds, and take time to notice the beauty that surrounds us. When Henry took his own life, he certainly did not believe it to be the end, and that is part of the reason he died. He would never back down. Maybe Henry was the perfect skimming stone, cast wonkily into the sea and ending its journey too soon. But when the tide has turned, and that pebble resurfaces on the beach in time, it will be cast again perfectly, and his journey will be long and beautiful. Or maybe, brave explorer that you are, your migration, your canoe, has taken you on to different lands ... you are mourned here in the gloom, but perhaps you will be greeted with joy and wonder when you ride in on the surf on a distant shore in the warm and bright morning sun. Either way, travel well my son.