The Queen died. Shit!
If the Queen can die, anyone can. The Queen sat astride an empire for 70 years, the most recognizable person in the world. She had at her disposal the best doctors and health advisers, whatever secret medicines were required, a team of experts to put on her shoes and take off her socks. She was loved by millions and admired by more. At a moment’s notice, she could ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross or or be the fine lady upon a white horse; “Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes/And she shall have music wherever she goes.”
If the Queen can die, so can I. I don’t have a hot line to the Cleveland Clinic or even the Cincinnati Clinic. I don’t have a fiddlers three to brighten my mood when darkness comes and pain is all around.
If the Queen can die, so can you. You’ve had a good life you say and there’s a time for every purpose under heaven. If all goes well, you’ll pass in your sleep and never know the difference.
Sorry, Bub, if the train is delivering me to Oblivion, I’d like to be awake for the ride. Maybe I can jump off on a slow turn just before a tunnel, roll down a grade and hide in the underbrush. Maybe they won’t find me. I can move to Berlin or the Cape of Good Hope or Sevastopol, where The Reaper’s spies take bribes. Die in my sleep? I don’t think so. Sometimes I wake up at night to make sure I’m not dead.
A very lonely friend recently posted on Facebook a sad message of defeat and despair. He intimated a long walk off a short pier was at hand. Okay, but then what? What if you wake up dead and St. Peter is nowhere to be found? What if you are reincarnated as Froggy the Gremlin? What if your soul is transported to Nothingville or some place Lindsey Graham is king? Might as well hang around here for while where at least you can ward off the blues with a taco.
The Queen is dead. Shit!
