It happened quickly in the end. An era, a reign, a span of history named for one woman, ended with the shallow final breath exhaled and another never to be taken. Those who were present were stilled by the magnitude of the moment. Bowed down by what has happened. What is to come. The moment of death is always a shifting point, a moment suspended in unreality, in the unknowable, the great complex, inexplicable journey now undertaken by that soul. The simple act of the last breath becomes one with the unfathomable existential questions hidden deep within every heart, and every mind.
Outside the palace walls, the song of the birds sounds like a foretelling, a prophecy, a message passed from bird to mammal, from animal to beast. They fly and scurry, rush and run, amble and sprint until atop the highest peak of the mountains of the estate the most immense beast appears. The majestic, fabled monarch stag stands proudly on the horizon and turns his gaze down the valley to the palace, the home, the room, and the family assembled there. The late afternoon sun reflects on his enormous eyes, he throws his head back and bellows, the sound booming down the mountainside to fill the space within the valley, and rushes atop the river, filling the sky, carrying the news to all of creation within his realm.
The Queen is dead.
When the sound of his call calms, the silence is thick, a moment of tribute from the animals within the kingdom.
Outside of Balmoral news anchors rush to find black ties, and black dresses, television schedules are halted, and announcements are made on trains and planes. In the palaces within the realm, long-held preparations are put into play. Politicians and royal appointees, pages and town criers, legislators, and community leaders gather their thoughts and begin preparations.
Britain is in mourning.
Their Queen is dead.
Across the Atlantic, in the capital of the nation once ruled by her ancestors the President of this great democracy is busy. Busy with his everyday schedule, busy trying to preserve that democracy from those who wish to ruin it, busy trying to make lives better for the ordinary, everyday people who put their trust in him. A product of emigration. The epitome of opportunity in the new world. Molded in the family story of emigration and famine, tyranny under a monarchy, forced starvation, and religious persecution, the mild-mannered handsome president was hard at work for his people.
The aide stepped into the Oval Office. Although filled with people the room was pleasantly cool on a hot day, and the scent of the President's aftershave gently filled the space. It held an undertone of expensive, tasteful, understated elegance. Always elusive, never identifiable it suited the man perfectly. Joe looked up from the papers he was reading, pen in hand, suit coat hung neatly on the back of his office chair, tie perfectly knotted, hair perfectly coiffed. His blue eyes calmly looked to his aide, patiently wondering what was about to deflect from his schedule, and where this next piece of information would send him. He didn't speak, just raised his eyebrows in question and permission to speak. 'The Queen is dead, sir'. Joe nodded and smiled grimly. 'Ahh. God be good to her', he said as he made the sign of the cross on his chest. The irony of the moment was lost on most in the room. But not lost at all on President Biden.
'Will you be able to reschedule do you think?' Joe asked his wife the following evening as they sat for their nightly dinner together. 'I hope so, I'd like to go to the funeral anyway but I'd also like to be with you. She was a lovely lady. She treated us so well in Windsor so yes I'm hopeful I can change things around', she replied, moving her napkin to her lap and reaching for her fork. 'It's gonna be an awesome display I think. The English love that kinda thing', the president said, eyes slightly narrowed. The sound of his wife's laughter filled his ears and made him smile. 'What?', he asked. 'Well that was a backhanded compliment if ever I heard one', Jill teased, 'your Irish heritage is going to be hard to curtail on the trip'. 'I've no intention of curtailing it', Joe exclaimed with a grin, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands across his stomach. 'I keep thinking of the irony. The first sitting US President to attend a Royal funeral in England is the Irish Catholic immigrant whose mother warned him never to bow to the Queen. Mom Mom is so proud right now', he said with a guffaw.
