On Swearing

In Normandy, at Point Du Hoc, where some Rangers died, Dad pointed to an old man 20 feet closer to the edge than us, asking if I could see the medal the man held like a rosary. As we approached the cliff the man’s swearing, each bulleted syllable, sifted back toward us in the ocean wind. I turned away, but my shoulder was held still by my father’s hand, and I looked up at him as he looked at the man.