A year ago, on the last night of my American boyfriend's Canadian
visit, we dirtied our hands throwing clods of flower
garden at the queen, who withstood our assault
with (quite literal) iron dignity. The quixotic gesture was my idea
and, though it was playful in execution, there was some undercurrent of
gravity, of private jealousy in it.
Why does every prodigal son need to be offset by an
obedient elder brother? Why couldn't we have been prodigal
twins?