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Once, long before, we had had an argument over Browning’s poem, ‘The Last Ride Together’, and I had finally convinced her, over stubborn resistance, that a ‘ride’ meant horses, not a carriage. I smiled faintly, there in the MG, at the memory: she liked the carriage. But now we were having a sort of a last ride together, and it was a carriage, after all, or at least the MG. As we turned into the St. Stephen’s road, I said lightly: ‘You win, dearling.’ At St. Stephen’s I turned in, under the oaks. I could see only one or two dim stars through the bare twisting branches. I got out and picked up the box. There was something else, dimly, on the seat. It was the rose, so I took that, too, and walked into the graveyard. Still holding the box, I knelt a moment by the old stone cross and prayed. Something cold touched my neck: snowflakes were drifting down. I stood up. It was cold—the dead of winter. I opened the box and began to scatter the ashes, using a sower’s motion. When I had done, the flakes were coming down hard. I left the rose on the old cross. I said aloud: ‘Go under the Mercy.’ Then I went away, and her ashes were covered with the blanket of the snow. The deathly snows.
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Sheldon Vanauken (A Severe Mercy: A Heartrending Memoir of Love, Faith, Grief, and the Healing Power of God, Featuring Unseen Letters from C. S. Lewis)