You are at the American War Museum with your daughter. Same age as your brother was back then. No life and death decisions in her life.
As fitting as it was to imagine Mrs Hart perched atop a fleecy cloud, my sympathies were firmly with her howling, motherless child.
Luke Davies pays tribute to his father, via Frank Sinatra's version of My Way.
One of my strongest memories is the pure joy we got out of making each other laugh. Belly laughs that happened while you hung upside down on the monkey bars were even more hilarious.
You can tell by the catch in Neil Finn's voice that it was a tough gig to play and sing this song for his former band mate.
“The White Album,” my son said one night. “Fair bit of filler on it. But I’m keen to learn more about George Harrison.”
As a Bowie aficionado Jack couldn’t hold a candle to Dennis, but this track burns deep at the best of times, and obliterates him in the worst. Such as now.
It was a restless, fitful time. At one or two or three in the morning I’d carefully ease out of bed and head for the loungeroom, well away from the sleeping family.
Vivid flashbacks. The last time I saw him. The last time I walked in to the hospital room. The last time he looked at me.
Here in my city I’m fretting after my father, lost in the aftermath of a stroke and the creeping invasion of inoperable cancer.