A life remembered.
I spoke to an old man on a dewy summer morning. We sat on a park bench under a spreading oak tree and he described the space beneath his desk where he waited for the flash. He remembered pointing to the screen when Oswald grimaced in pain, and he told me of the joy in sniffing freshly printed mimeographs. He told me of the shame he felt after learning of My Lai, and how he missed the famous at Max’s Kansas City. He stiffened as he spoke of helping his father pack his things when he was left as a boy. And he wept at the thought of his dog’s last three breaths. Afterward, he brightened as he recalled the kindest person he’d ever met, and that he once had had faith. He said he remembered everything. And then he moved on.