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Queen Elizabeth II was born the same year as my father. She enjoyed good health two years longer than Dad did, but the Queen, like my father, has now gone to the Great Beyond. By all estimates I have heard, Elizabeth lived a laudable life, remained active and cognizant to the end, and she experienced a peaceful passing. Still, I am sad to see her go, and I shall miss her.
I also miss my brother Bruce, who happened to be born the year Elizabeth ascended to the British throne. If my brother were living now, he would be seventy years and two days more. But Bruce, I regret to say, is two years gone tomorrow.
And, of course, while I am making these melancholy pronouncements on this particular date, I think of the event called “Nine Eleven.” I think of the many, many who were killed or wounded twenty-one years ago today, in the Towers, the Pentagon, and a field in Pennsylvania. And I must also respectfully remark upon the countless casualties of the decades of war that consequently followed.
I am producing these mournings on a Sunday morning, while the sky over the place I live is dark and damp. I have heard, though, somewhat reassuringly, that the sun may someday shine once more.
♦
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