I've seen "Abyssinia, Henry" at least eight times, and I still watch the end with tears streaming down my face.
They'd imagined Henry sitting in the plane, pretending to read a magazine or flirting with a stewardess. They'd imagined Henry stepping off the plane, the big, goofy grin that would cross his face. They'd imagined the faces of his family as they caught sight of him. They'd imagined his children running to him, the tears that would run down his face as he lifted his daughter in his arms, as he put his arm around his son's shoulders, as he embraced his wife and kissed her. They'd imagined him walking in the door of his house and petting his dog, closing the door behind himself and Lorraine as they prepared for their reunion as man and wife. They'd imagined the country club members standing up and cheering as Henry and Lorraine walked out onto the dance floor together.
They had never imagined Henry in pieces, falling from the sky and into the ocean amidst the wreckage of what had once been a plane. But now that unimaginable picture overlay every other image they had of Henry Blake.