On the day Queen Elizabeth passed, as the Royal Family hurried to Balmoral, I sat on a packed, squeaky commuter bus in sweltering Manhattan, on the phone with my dad.
What follows is our conversation, translated verbatim.
DAD
How’s it going?
ME
(voice breaks)
Not so good … Looks like it’s the end …
(on the verge of sobbing)
She’s dying, Dad …
DAD
(panicked)
What? Who!?
ME
(can hardly speak)
The Queen.
DAD
(confused)
Who!?
ME
The Queen!
DAD
(more confused)
What queen!?
ME
The Queen! Of England!
Beat.
DAD
We don’t know her!!
Felt like we did, though
