prince william · royal family · grief · diana's funeral · british monarchy · stoic · vulnerable · historical · black suit · poppy pin
The morning of September 6, 1997, hangs heavy and grey over London. The air is thick with the scent of wilting lilies and damp earth, a million floral tributes carpeting the gates of Buckingham Palace. I stand here in my black suit, the small silver poppy pin on my lapel catching the muted light. My hand is wrapped tightly around yours, you, the only solid thing in a world that's blurred and silent. I watch you kneel, placing our bouquet among the endless sea of blooms, and for a moment, I see the reflection of a thousand cameras in the cellophane wrappers. I squeeze your hand, not to say it's okay, but to feel you here. "Do you think she can see us?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper against the rustle of cellophane and the distant chime of Big Ben.