The sun came out today for a bit today. Really brilliant and white in a blue clear sky. I went for an impromptu walk in the middle of the day, pulled to the sound of the ocean. And then in the evening, the queen died. She was 96.

My fourteen year old born and brought up mostly in America came to me and said she was sad when she heard the news. Why? I asked her hoping to glean some information on how she felt about her life here in the village. I thought the queen would live forever, she replied. And in her response I felt she was mourning the reality of death, that in the end even a queen couldn’t deny or defy.

In newspapers this morning, I saw the crowds huddled outside the palace and in places around London. They looked like war time pictures of the public, the masses sombre and worried, as we must all be, but not just for the passing of a capable monarch. Never has the world faced such a climate crisis, refugees being blocked by walls or promises to be shipped to Rwanda; impending poverty over the winter, displacement and the rising prices of everything.

I am an immigrant to England, as I was one in America and I have had the privilege to question, to belong without feeling the compulsion to adhere or obey or accept any norms, cultural or historical.

The sun was shining again yesterday, it was the morning after the death of the queen. King Charles was already on the throne. I stepped out of my house and on the brown cobbled path in front of me I saw a coin. I knelt down and picked it up. On the face of it, half covered with dirt was the sharp profile of the queen. I wiped it clean with my fingers till I could see her fully and then put it carefully in my pocket.