September 14, 2022
In the sad days after my mother’s
death and funeral, I and my siblings had the daunting task of going through her
possessions. There was her bedroom, of course, a place where we had rarely trod,
and we all shared a bit of a nervous laugh as we crossed the threshold to do so
then. As if we expected her to appear and tell us to get the hell out of her
room.
There were discoveries made.
An Irish Sweepstakes ticket with a future date, and I think that was the one
and only time in my life I prayed for a lottery ticket to not be a
winner; the irony of that would be just too cruel. There was also a notebook
which we discovered in one of her drawers that listed most of her possessions
of sentimental value—and to which of us that item should go.
She left me her mother’s
engagement ring and my father’s mother’s as well. Adding a fifth diamond, I had
these rings made into one; and it shall go to my daughter when I die.
The notebook, the forethought,
surprised us. Mother died of a sudden heart attack, and that was unexpected and
a shock to all three of us. But about two years before she died, she’d had
surgery on her knees thanks to the ravages of osteoarthritis. In advance of that,
she apparently got her affairs in order to an incredible degree. Being a nurse,
she expected the worst.
None of us quibbled over what
the others had been assigned; except that neither my brother nor my sister
wanted any of the silver cutlery sets, so I ended up with all three.
One thing we came across as we
cleared the house was a metal box that was in the back of the closet under the
stairs. We imagined this box, about 24 inches square and twelve inches deep,
had been there since we’d moved into that house, when my father was still alive.
And inside that box was a plethora of magazines and newspapers, all on the Royal
Family. Our newly discovered treasure included a souvenir magazine in honor of
the ascension of Albert Frederick Arthur George—King George VI. I haven’t
thought of those heirlooms in a long time, as we lost them in our first house
fire.
Canada is a member of the
Commonwealth; and the British Monarch is our Head of State. My parents were
staunch supporters, of course, of the monarchy and considered themselves
British subjects, which they were in fact, for all of their lifetimes, even
having been born in Canada. The Canadian Citizenship Act, 1976, (after the
passing of both my parents) replaced the term used to describe Canadian citizens
up till that point, “British subject”, with the term “Commonwealth citizen”.
My siblings and I were all
raised to respect the Queen, and over the years of my life, I held her in high
regard and affection.
Of course, I knew she was getting
on in age. I think I became really cognizant of that fact when she hit the eighty-year
mark. And I watched the Jubilee in June of this year, secretly praying she
lived to see it, so in the back of my mind I knew she wouldn’t live a whole lot
longer. Her mother, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother, managed to make it to her
one hundred and second year, four months shy of her 102nd birthday.
I thought it reasonable to think our Queen would become a centenarian.
Knowing all that, I was
shocked, and I was devastated with the news of her death. I felt as if I’d
lost a dear member of my own family, truly. Yes, I’m in mourning, and no,
please don’t tell me not to be, or that I should instead focus on being
grateful for her life and reign.
I’m an emotionally
sophisticated woman and can experience both grief and gratitude at the same time.
Hearing so many others—ordinary
people and news commentators alike—reporting the same emotional response gives
me a sense of justification, for lack of a better word. I am not alone in my emotional
state.
Because we are human, we do
internalize things that happen in the wider world. I realize part of the grief I
feel comes from losing one more connection to my own past. On the last day of
February 2020, I became the sole surviving member of my birth family. That’s a
burden of emotion I didn’t know existed until it happened. A sharp grief that, and
as grief will do to everyone, it still attacks at the oddest moments.
In the days since our Gracious
Majesty was called home, I’ve spent a lot of time quietly, thinking and
reflecting, and wondering about the future. I am grateful for the example of duty
and decency and dedication which are but a part of Her Majesty’s legacy. She wasn’t
perfect, for that trait belongs only to a higher being. But she left her world
a richer place than when she came into it. The anecdotes surfacing from those
who met her, some from folks who were not famous, all share similar qualities.
She made the people she met feel important and worthy in their own right. She
looked them in the eyes and whatever few words she gave, they each felt those
words came from her heart.
During the Coronation, there
is a ritual called the Anointing. This more than one-thousand-year-old holy
ritual is the private part of the larger ceremony unseen during the telecast of
Her Majesty’s coronation in 1953. In it,
the Monarch is anointed by the archbishop with holy oil, a representation of
her sanctification by God to be His special servant here on earth.
At about the same time that
news of Her Majesty’s death was announced—or shortly thereafter—a double rainbow
appeared over Buckingham Palace.
Tradition holds that rainbows
are a sign from God. And I believe with all my heart, this double rainbow was
our Lord saying to Elizabeth Alexandra Mary, “well done, my true and faithful
servant.”
I will grieve until I am done
grieving and will make no apologies for it. But I can end this essay with words
that I’ve never written but that, because I so respected my late Queen,
I can write and truly mean.
God Save the King!
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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