The war Queen and the postwar Princess

Dear Mago,
Just yesterday I saw a movie about Queen Elizabeth II of England, called the “Queen”. I think it fits in here, because it gives me another mirror upon which I can reflect over a generation of women who – like Aunt Ginny and mom – experienced World War II as young adults. I saw the "Queen" as a reflection on the generation that gave birth to all of us baby bing bang boom boom boomers. I saw it also as a reflection on the authority of a woman predestined to promote the interests of a nation, a monarchy, a nuclear family, a religion – at the expense perhaps of personal creativity. I saw it also as a statement about any woman past her prime – beyond sexuality – who wakes up one morning to find that her identity is suddenly no longer valid.
The war is over, the war is over, the war is over. I’m listening to Steve Reich, “Different trains”. From New York to Los Angeles, from New York, to New York, New York. We're on different trains of thought: a roller coaster and a boxcar, sometimes overlapping one another, sometimes looping. Been, being, and will be all at once taken for a ride on different trains. Catholic or Jew, monarch or commoner, prince or princess, writer or wronger? By the way, the prince and princess are divorced now, and the Queen's grandchildren divide their time from coast to coast between their parents. Traveling takes time.
The aged monarch is not accustomed to being ignored, much less being hated, the way she is now. Ever since the mother of her great grandchildren - named after the mythological goddess of the hunt - was suddenly stalked and killed in a car accident, she has been accused. Will the baby boom boom boomers, the upbeat generation and their global toddlers, force her to relinquish all her power now, by diverting the attention of the world to the postwar horrors of innocent children, tripping on still buried land mines... all gone, all gone, all gone, on one of the fastest trains, fastest trains.
It’s also about a Queen mother in her 90s who has survived herself. Her views are at best a woof of humor. We are as amused as she is aghast to find out that plans for her funeral have been usurped to facilitate the unexpected and untimely death of a goddess. I hear different tracks, different places, different times.
I hear too that the integrity of the human being - Queen, King or commoner – can be restored by repetition and mimicry, as we enter the next phase. As we move to the natural rhythms and progressions, ups and downs, through the various phases of life, our lives are cut, spliced and wiped out with the tools that we use to deal with grief.
Perhaps the lace handkerchief that mom left behind, and that Babcia kept for decades, holds a secret. The lost child may never return home...