Dear Grace,

When I was small, I didn't want to be a princess. Instead, I thought, I’d much rather be a lawyer and imagined myself bent over a large mahogany desk absently handling a pair of oversized glasses, the ear tip of one arm resting between my lips. I'd lean closer, tracing the lines in the thick file, trying to incline the balance of justice. In my childhood, all castles were fixed firmly to earth.

But now, Grace, I fall into reveries on far away lands, fantasies of dresses formed from raw silk. Why now do I tangle myself in thoughts of bestowed title and unearned privilege? Perhaps the arrival of a prince piqued my imagination too; maybe a June wedding under the golden Tuscan sun warmed my skin and reminded me to dream. Are my feet finally large enough to fill your grown-up slippers?

As I sit before a sprawling desk, fingertips poised, you—sweet Grace—are once again on the screen. I begin to assemble the pieces of your editorial. I puzzle together your pretty face, your signature uniform, your inescapable public being and I think to myself that the life of a princess is a far more fitting fantasy for a grown woman, a woman already well impressed by sadness and beauty, hope and possibility.

Archive Photo: Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly