I woke up this morning with the sunlight peeking in. The news was announcing the death of Kenny Rogers.
My mind flashed to the first time I ever heard his raspy voice. I was standing on top of a crumbled down wall of an old French fortification just outside of Quang Tri, Vietnam. His voice was coming to us through one inch speakers of tiny transistor radios propped up on those walls. They were tuned to the only station that played our music.
His voice was speaking directly to me and the way I was feeling. “I tripped on a cloud and fell eight miles high. I tore my mind on a jagged sky. I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in.”
My condition was not too good. But it was physically better than the G.I.’s we were treating every day, all day. It was the…
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