Memoirs of a Life Unlived

I've taken lots of late-career tribute acts and helped them see the paradox of seventy year old Lennons –  lean and creased like Jagger –  tired eyeball to eyeball with McCartney, washed up Yokos railing at Pepsi deals and fat LPs. Half a dozen sessions later they'll disband and retire on State Pension or take up jobs in DIY Stores, never again speaking of those years. In the Manager’s strip-lit office, clean, they gaze at past Employees of the Month and think of all that might have been.

in memoriam The Fallen at Omaha Kept hearing Piccadilly Circus  but didn't get it. London, right? I prayed for more storms. Didn't work: we got word. Not many slept except  the dumb and the godly. Noise. Some goofing off. Sarge let them have it. Off the transport. Down the nets. Into the LCVP.                             (...Higgins boat.) Jokes. I tried real hard, grinned till my jaw ached. Diesel choked my guts and I kept thinking: this is the good weather?  Elbows in ribs. Stinking breath. Some were still gung ho. Most went quiet. You hunker down. Sick and smokes. Mutterings to moms and sweethearts. I thought of mom for a spell, started to make out faces as Captain briefed us again. Close now, he said. Now the fear. Fear. Mouth dry as ash. Chalk sky gave no clue. Sea spray gave no clue. Faces gave no clue. Heartbeats gave no clue. Bow ramp descends and shows all...