TWICE WAGGED TALES

KEN’S DILEMMA I close my eyes to see places I’ve travelled— San Francisco to Oxford, and then back again, with stops in the middle at Ireland and London and Malta and Burma and Paris and Spain, though not in that order. My memory map’s scrambled; the people and places are fading from view. Was it Olivier we met backstage in London, impressing my mother and friend Dalke, too? The ships I remember, the Speaker and Ocean; the squadron’s number was, um, 892. The Fireflies we flew in, the buddies who flew them: Frenchy and Smithy, I remember those two. But who was the girl I left there in London? Her name is right here on the tip of my tongue. The photographs fade, I can’t capture the essence— the feelings and foibles when we were so young. I’ve lived a good life; I just can’t recall it. I’d like to go back for one more long look. But we've printed the stories. I can read and remember. Now if only I knew where I put the darn book!