Some of you may not have been born yet but I have a clear recollection of a few minutes of that day. I was running to the house after playing on the swing. That must have been 4:30 or 5:00 in the afternoon when I saw Papa, seated dejectedly, his shoulders slouched on the sala sofa when he said, “President Kennedy was assassinated.” A definite sadness had engulfed Papa so that from an exhilarated me I was transformed into a melancholic one, possibly not realizing the full impact of it all at 7 years old just yet, but sensing nonetheless that it was something truly terrible that had transpired.
Now fifty years later, watching all the discussions, clips, and what-not on the assassination, I shed tears for what might have been, for the young Caroline clutching onto her mother’s hand, the even younger saluting his dead dad, and the many Americans who loved and lost a president. Some men him then, now aged, were interviewed. Visuals of widows of the slain supposed assassin, a policeman he killed were shown.
A sad day for remembering.