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| I sense your attention flagging. |
The gilt, the grin.
The pageantry, the gowns, the boats, the gifts. The hand-annotated speeches, and recordings of those words spoken, resounding. Astounding.
Election posters, pins and bunting. History, encapsulated: the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum.
Papers from the Cuban Missile Crisis show a level of civility and diplomacy seemingly absent today. Khrushchev and Kennedy, firm, yet cordial as the world teeters on the verge of nuclear apocalypse.
Suddenly, a long, black hallway, darkened – lit only by five small televisions. Newsreels.
November 22, 1963.
The lump in my throat forms like the one in Walter Cronkite's as he reads the news bulletin.
"President Kennedy died at 1 p.m. central standard time, 2 o'clock eastern standard time – some 38 minutes ago."
I don't know why I tear.
But I do.
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