It was time for his outburst. It rained.
One of the solemn, native couples stepped toward the American. Each placed an arm upon the foreign mourner in a comforting attempt.
“Princess Di will live on in our hearts and minds,” the woman said in her charming accent.
“And the media which murdered her will keep her image alive when our memories fail us,” the man said with sarcastic overtone.
When Ed spoke, his words were as soggy as he felt. “That’s the sad part,” he said. “The media. The public recognition.”
The British couple rubbed and patted the man of irrational words.
“Princess Di was a fine woman, a good humanitarian,” he continued. “But so was my wife.”
“What does you wife have to do with the Princess?” the woman asked over the music of stifled cries around them.
“My wife died about a year ago,” Ed explained. “I loved her so much. This reminds me of her accident. Her premature death.” Ed buried his face in his hands. She had been a big fan of the Princess. But to him, she was the Princess.
He could almost hear her crying to him from her grave. Di did die but so did I.
Ed lifted his face to look at his confused comforters. “The sad thing is when my wife died, nobody cared.”
The couple didn’t know what to say, so they said nothing. Ed and the couple looked at the thousands of flowers dedicated to Princess Diana. One single bouquet, dedicated to his own princess, meant so much than the thousands of others because it was in memory of her. But it only meant more to him.
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