ONE WORD. MAXIMA

I have seen Maxima's tear at least 437 times. And every 437 times I had to cry. Really. If I were an actress, I would ask my director not for two half, raw onions but for a YouTube video of our queen who was still a princess at the time, reflecting on her life to Adios Nonino.

Sadness about letting go of her past, embracing her present. With slightly swollen eyes from the busy program the night before. I still wonder how we could have done something so inappropriate. It was a nice party in the Arena with Van Dik Hout’s Stil In Mij, Leonie Jansen’s Aan de Amsterdamse Grachten, and Marco Borsato and Sita (yes, again proof of the transience of fame) singing Lopen Over Water or something like that. You just don’t do that the night before someone’s Big Day? Poor Máxima.

Anyway. There she was. More beautiful than stunning in her Valentino. Her hand in that of her love who pulled her to a country she, say, had never heard of five years before. Just before that famous tear rolled down her cheeks, I saw his lips say ‘ti amo’ to her. I understood that. Who could not love her?

Twelve years have passed. From princess she became queen. She danced to Tiësto and Armin van Buren, introduced the world to the talent Taminiau. Her eyes during the attack on Queen's Day in Apeldoorn, her arm around Princess Mabel during the visit to Prince Friso in Lech. Climbing up in the snow where Princess Ariane had fallen from the ski lift. And yesterday showing her vulnerability and fragility at the entrance of the victims of MH17. Never has the title Queen Mother been more fitting.

If anyone ever asks the intensely stupid question what the purpose of our monarchy is, my answer is short and powerful. Máxima. The power of her smile. The comfort of her tear. Period.