My friend Donna – both of us about to graduate from octogenarian school – managed to time our walk to coincide with the Blue Angels’ recent air show, and in my 90th year I rediscovered a thrill I had almost forgotten.

Contrails sketched on the blue dome by an invisible artist, his pen a fleeting dot. “What fun!” I thought.

As the roar subsided into the gentle rustling of maple leaves, touched by late-summer crimson, we passed another resident, himself a former Navy pilot, who admitted he had not flown with the Blue Angels.

But who’s keeping score? We shared something, both Americans.

William Sayres

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