It seemed an impossible coincidence. Ghostly even.
It was June 5, 1994. For several days I had been sick and banished to the attic room in our house in Akron, Ohio; quarantined, as it were. The world was approaching the 50th anniversary of D-Day and the TV was filled with stories and remembrances and old grainy footage and images. By Saturday, June 4, my mind was overtaken with a fever-induced fantasy of seeing my father amongst the black and white images of the beaches, of the French towns, the visages of pain and fear and hardship of that day.Read More