One word. Máxima

I have seen the video ‘De Traan van Maxima’, loosely translated as ‘Maxima’s Tear’ at least 437 times. And I cried all 437 times. Really. If I was an actress and the scene called for crying, I ‘d ask my director to show me this Youtube video of our Queen when she was still Princess, instead of giving me two pieces of raw onion.

Mourning the loss of her past, and embracing her future. With lightly swollen eyes from her busy agenda the evening before. I still question how we could have been so inappropriate. It was a great party at the Arena with Van Dik Hout’s ‘Stil In Mij’, Leonie Jansen’s ‘Aan de Amsterdamse Grachten’ and Marco Borsato and Sita (yes, yet more proof of the transient nature of fame) who sang ‘Lopen Over Water’ or something. Surely you don’t do something like this the evening before someone’s Big Day? Poor Máxima.

Fine. There there she was. Looking more than beautiful in Valentino. Her hand resting in the hand of her love, he who had brought her to a country that she had not even heard of five years before. Just before the famous tear rolled down her cheek, he mouthed ’ti amo’. I got it. Who could possibly not be in love with her?

Twelve years on. She went from Princess to Queen. She danced to Tiësto and Armin van Buren, introduced the world to the talent of Taminiau. The look in her eyes during the attack on Queens Day in Apeldoorn, her arm around Princess Mabel during the visits to Prince Friso in Lech. Clawing her way through the snow to where Princess Ariane lay after she fell out of the ski lift. Yesterday again as she showed her vulnerability and fragility as the victims of MH17 were flown in.

Never has the title of Queen Mother been more apt.

If anyone ever dares to stupidly question the necessity for our royal house, my answer will be short and powerful. Máxima. The power of her laugh. The comfort of her tear. Period.