As I winced at the claps where claps formerly had not been, it occurred to me that this new mourning works. It allows us to process our grief
I WATCHED THE OLDER GENTLEMAN FUMBLE with his ticket. A thick tie knot just short of his shirt’s top button spoke of a return to formality of dress for someone now long used to the comfortable sartorial consolations of retirement. He had a day Travelcard — the mark of someone who comes into London rarely and, in the surge at the barriers at Green Park Tube station, he mishandled it while trying to balance a huge bunch of flowers.
I looked back to see a staff member let him through with a smile. I noticed his eyes had the puffiness of recently-shed tears. He balanced the flowers, returned the ticket to a trouser pocket, and made his way towards the Mall.
We had both come, the older man and myself, with thousands upon thousands of others, not to
