Death Of

It would be utterly ridiculous to even suggest I knew them.

And I would never presume to do that.

However, there were moments I felt a kinship.

The first was a bleak morning in a tenement on West 58th Street when I arose at 5:30 to prepare for their wedding.

My Mother, accustomed to my many eccentricities, gave permission for me to attend the ceremony via radio. Her one provision was I kept the sound low enough that it didn’t wake any other members of the railroad flat.

And certainly not alert the neighbors to more of my peculiarities. Although I was quite young in 1947 the day of their marriage, there was no excuse for being different.

My dream world was inhabited with storybook royalty. Of course, it constantly seemed to focus on the impossible, a prince who would love me.

And that spring day, the real life princess had found hers. I was so happy for her, never daring to hope I would one day find mine.

However, to my utter joy, I did years later. However, that is another tale.

The closest I came to visiting their home was a sunny afternoon. I happened to be standing across the street in Windsor when she and he (presumably) waved. Although I was merely part of a small crowd, I accepted the gesture as uniquely mine.

Then too, we both had four children. Beautiful, one and all.

Ironically, we now share the pain of estranged grandchildren.

We will never have a conversation about what happened in our families, but I believe our emotions are identical.

Seventy three years ago, I believed I shared her joy.

Today I believe I share her pain.

My Prince left years ago, and he has never been forgotten. Nor has his loss healed in my heart.

I fear she will share that sadness despite the weight of a crown.